


Your Heroes For Ghosts

by SecretNerdPrincess



Series: Threading the Timelines [2]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, All the dark, Angst, Dark, garcy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-07-15 06:01:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 62,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16057028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretNerdPrincess/pseuds/SecretNerdPrincess
Summary: What if Garcia Flynn never accepted the journal from Lucy Preston in Sao Paulo? What if he just walked away?Set in a dystopian universe where Rittenhouse has taken over the world.





	1. To the Ends of the Earth

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be read as a parallel/bubble universe from my other Timeless story, Threading the Timelines. Set in the dystopian world that Future Lucy returned to at the end of that story. Not necessary to read it, but you should know this story's gonna be dark. Like only a sliver of hope at the end of the story, dark. You've been warned.

_Jiya warned me of my death long before it happened. I argued that this world lacked the temperance for fate or destiny. But watching you slip from my bed before dawn, I find no regret, only grace that we shared these fleeting nights together. Fate’s hand runs through the filaments of timelines tying us together and I go to my end praying the universe deems this sacrifice worthy._

_I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you, my Lucia, but nothing can alter the destiny I face in the dull, grey morning that hangs like a shroud over this burial march. My Valkyrie, my love, my warrior wife, I cannot risk you, my fear for your continued survival all-consuming. The world cannot continue without your light._

_I never finished telling you the story of how I met you the first time around. You know the beginning: the dingy bar in Sao Paulo, half empty and smelling of decades of sorrow, heaped on the shoulders of the working dead shuffling in for the oblivion of the bottle. You found me there, drunk, alone, paranoid; a desperate predator, backed into a corner and out of options._

_I never told you my darkest confession. I walked away from you that night. You begged me to listen and I ignored you. All of what follows, the Collections and the Cleansing, The Days of Necessity and the Nights of Regret. The creeping smothering plague that crept through history, bent on a more perfect union. It is all my fault._

_This journal is the story of the Resistance. Of humanity’s last stand. I am only one man, one soldier, and this is my last contribution to the cause. I entrust it to your keeping._

_For you. For the future. To amend for the past.  
I walk willing into the fire, unafraid of the flames. _

_I love you, Lucy Preston-Flynn._

_To the ends of the earth,  
Garcia _

xxxxx  
_September 12, 2014  
_ xxxxx

The smell of desperation stalked him, fear making him sloppy. Rittenhouse only two days behind, Flynn knew tomorrow he needed to be on a plane bound for Siberia. Mauritania. Madagascar. Anywhere a thousand miles away. Under another identity. Running. Always running.

He wanted to stand and fight, but who? Where? How? He was only one man, one soldier. He needed an army. He gestured to the bartender, who refilled his whiskey. His third. After this, he’d throw another dart at another wall. Let the fickle hand of fate decide the next destination. Sipping, the liquid burned and he let it dull the sharper corners of his grief. Nothing lasted long enough to erase the agony of the pale yellow room, Lorena draped over the white bedspread, reaching for her daughter. Her last thought, protecting Iris. His heart, his hope, immortalized forever in a pool of blood. He could not forget the deep red stain enveloping their bodies as he ran from the house. Felt the bullets ricochet, but none succeeded in giving him an easy death.

That image haunted him, chased him around the globe as he tried to disappear from Rittenhouse. He wanted vengeance, could taste its promise beneath the whiskey, beckoning him forward. Whispering of the peace he craved, the peace that eluded him. Penance for the lives he failed to protect.

“Is this seat taken?” a feminine voice inquired.

He looked up, studying her through the haze of alcohol and cigarette smoke. “Suit yourself.” Pretty, but rough around the edges. Her cargoes and faded grey t-shirt, old, worn. Brunette hair chopped at the shoulders, utilitarian.

“Vodka. Pura.” The bartender filled the glass he placed in front of her. “Obrigado.”

Flynn sized her up with a stolen glance, tense, but not going for the weapon at her ankle. Too far away to take him down before he strangled the life out of her. He’d prefer not to, leaving bodies behind complicated his escape. The little he knew about Rittenhouse, they wouldn’t be so brazen. If they’d sent her to seduce him, her clothing too sloppy, accenting nothing of her small frame. They’d killed his wife, sending him a whore would backfire. No pale imitation of Lorena would divert his attention long enough to kill him.

“Garcia Flynn.” Her words, confident, not a question.

Adrenaline surged through his veins, on immediate alert. “Do I know you?” He touched the weapon at his side, sliding his hand over its cool surface and unsnapping the holster. Though he despised men who used violence against women, in this moment, she was the enemy, not a woman. Nothing would stop him from avenging the death of his family.

“In a manner of speaking,” she trailed off, her gaze hiding something.

“There is no manner of speaking,” his sidearm slipped from the holster with ease. “Tell me your name or find another mark.”

“Lucy Preston,” she turned and extended her hand to him. He let it hang in the air between them. “I know about Lorena and Iris. How they died. How you found them and how you ran.”

Scoffing, he raised his drink to his lips. “So does most of America. Try again.”

“I know who’s responsible. They’re called--”

“Rittenhouse. Yes, I know all of this.” Unimpressed, his stare dissected her.

“You want revenge for their deaths, to obliterate Rittenhouse?” He gave her a curt nod and his body relaxed a fraction. “You’re gonna need my help to do that.”

A raised eyebrow captured his incredulity. “You? I’m going to need your help?” He shot down the last of his whiskey. “No offense, Lucy,” he spat out her name like a curse as his eyes raked down her body, “but you have very little to offer me.”

Her face looked like he’d punched her and regret flooded his system. Why? Obviously Rittenhouse, he shouldn’t care about hurting her. But the way she looked at him, haggard and hopeless, like she was drinking in the only water in the desert.

“Forgive me.” Why was he apologizing?

Her smile changed her entire face, lifted the weariness from it’s lines and revealed the girl the years must have worn away. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

She withdrew a battered brown leather journal and set it on the bar between them. “What is it?” he asked without taking it. He noticed the initials engraved on the front, but couldn’t make them out.

She chewed her bottom lip, careful of her words. “The story of how we beat them.”

“Is that so.” He turned away, dismissing her.

“You have to believe me, one day you and I are going to work together to bring them down and you’re going to need this journal to--” she swallowed the words she wanted to say and corrected, “to get you there.” A wistful, tortured smile crossed her face. “We make quite the team.”

Back to skepticism, he moved to leave. “You’re insane. There’s no way you can know that unless you’re hiding a crystal ball behind that pretty face. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”  

Stepping away from her, she stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “Just wait. You can’t imagine how important this is.” He glared down and shook off her touch. “Just take the journal, what can it hurt?” she begged him, tears threatening to break free of her lids. She pushed the scarred book at him. “Please.”

He hesitated, almost grabbing it from her outstretched hands. But he needed certainty, not pipe dreams from a woman who claimed to know the future. He knew what lay in front of him and he accepted his waiting death. “Sell your crazy elsewhere, Lucy Preston. Have a good life.”

With that, he walked away from her, overwhelmed by a sense of dread. Had he turned around, he would have seen her, tears streaming, a woman shattering in the dim light, crushed by years of heartbreak.

xxxxx  
_Four Years Later  
_ xxxxx

The crowd gathered in the square at nine a.m. sharp for the Daily Devotional. Each citizen required to appear at their designated Collection points. These days they served as little more than gathering spots, the Dark Years behind them, but the screams of the Forgotten echoed in the ghosts they left behind.

Garcia Flynn hated being caught out at this time of day, safer to be underground. Too many eyes. He pulled the old Tigers hat lower and knelt with the rest of the group.

The loudspeaker crackled to life. _The wind at your back._

“The sun on your face,” came the crowd’s monotone, an automatic recitation.

 _Peace through obedience.  
_ We kneel.

 _Prosperity through control.  
_ We kneel.

_Everything in its time;  
For the good of humanity, the few must rise. _

We submit to the will of Rittenhouse.

And so they began their day. He rose and blended with the throng as they dispersed. Back to the bunker to plan their next mission. Something big, they’d been nibbling around the edges for too long. They needed something to shake people from their complacency. The ranks of the resistance thinned over the past couple years, the fight often fatal. If not in combat, then paraded in front of the jeering crowd, your last breaths, a warning.

He stuck to the dirtier side streets, narrow alleys that filled with garbage the closer you got to the Outskirts. Nearer the Citadel, the center resembled the city of old. But here, the people subsisted on the barest amounts, the scraps of the unused and tossed away. Warehouse workers, housekeepers, and bartenders mingled with the underemployed and the struggling to get by.

Detroit Zone: Restaurant District Three, or RD3 for short, lucked out since the only entrance to the bunker lay in the south corner nearest Warehouse District One and behind the arena. Therefore, RD3 existed under his protection. His guys infiltrated every aspect of life in the district to ensure the peaceful balance. Never letting anything get too out of control, they allowed his Zoners relative freedom to resolve differences however they saw fit. As long as no one rioted and no one died, they needed the release from the weight of the world around them.

Some districts descended into mob style vengeance with the occupants huddling against the night in their one room quarters. Rittenhouse didn’t care as long as the cities kept running and the bodies got buried before the sun rose. It played into their ultimate goal anyway. Keep ‘em working, slogging through the muck with the promise of a better tomorrow.

He crossed through the last checkpoint into RDS proper, “Hey John, Philly.”

His guys waved him through without issue and he scanned the fence in both directions, greeted by the rusting Warning signs that bordered the entirety of the Outskirt Zone. Rittenhouse discouraged mixing between Zoners. Once designated, you stayed in your place until they found you worthy of Ascension. Very few citizens ever made it out of their original zone, but when someone did, the event required a series of solemn rituals.

“Quiet as usual, Flynn,” Philly answered his unspoken question. The dark man joined Flynn back in the beginning, when he and the team first organized. He trusted him almost as much as he trusted Karl.

Nodding, he passed through the gates and continued on, torching the forged papers that gave him temporary access to the Central Zone and dropping them in an empty barrel to burn away. Gone, like his original identity. Erased from any database when he stumbled into Detroit right before they closed all the borders.

He often worried about his decision to come back to the States. Sitting in the chapel, back home in Croatia, something drew him to Detroit. He had no idea why, but he followed that instinct.  Running into Jiya at the dive bar on Charlevoix saved his sorry ass. He had no idea why she took him in at the time, simply thankful for a clean set of sheets.

Entering MacReynolds by the back door, Flynn wound his way through the stainless steel prep tables.

“Hey Bossman.” Flynn dragged his focus back to reality. “What’s the haps?”

“Same old, same old, Q.” He snagged a french fry out of the basket. “You get in those burgers?”

“Yeah, gave me a bit of trouble again.” The young man shrugged. “Trying to pass off the expired stuff as if I don’t know.”

Flynn stopped at the kitchen exit. “You need reimbursed at all?”

“Nah, man,” he shook his head. “I took Karl with me, so I didn’t need to this time.”

“Take him with you from now on, then.” Flynn approved of Karl taking the kid under his wing. Q lost his parents in the Cleansing and Rufus and Jiya’d collected him like so many others. There were too many orphans these days. The kids stayed in the apartments around the bar as long as they needed them.

“Say hi to Mama Bear.”

“Will do, buddy.” Flynn left the kitchen and headed into the bar proper, finding his regular stool in the corner empty. “Hey, Win, grab me a beer, please.” _God he missed whiskey._

The tiny punk rock pixie strolled down the bar and pulled a bottle from the cooler, uncapping it and setting it down. “Everything good?”

“Five by five.” He scanned the bar. “Decent night tonight.”

“Yup, seems like when the devil rolled out hell, he didn’t skimp on the alcohol.” A regular attracted her attention and she tapped the bar in front of him before going to refill the man’s draft.

Served his purposes, Flynn just needed to be seen, especially after the action of the past few weeks. Going quiet would work to give them time to plan and for things to calm down. So Flynn stayed and played owner for a bit. Denise, Rufus, and Jiya--the team, strangers that became family at the end of the world--all took turns making an appearance here and there. Enough to look like productive citizens.

Bars like theirs had all but disappeared. Only a few had been grandfathered in under the Family Domicile Exception. Thanks to Jiya the hacker genius, on paper, MacReynolds was owned by Malcolm Reynolds, whose father passed it down to him and so on and so forth. It was a handy cover. Neighborhood joints like this used to bring people together. They still gathered, but now spoke only in subdued, muttered conversations. As long as they stayed under the radar, Rittenhouse left them alone.

After a beer or two, he slipped out the back. Checking over his shoulder, he pushed aside the garbage can and lifted the bottom of the chain link fence, ducking under. He shoved the metal dumpster back into place and darted across to the drain pipe that lead into an old unused sewer system. Certain no one followed, he jogged through the twists and turns that led him under the Detroit river and into the bunker on Belle Isle.

“Honey, I’m home!” His voice carried down the hallway. “Well, look at this picture of domesticity.”

Rufus and Jiya had their heads bent over a stack of old books. When Flynn joined them, Rufus joked, “Mom, creepy uncle’s back.”

“Have you found anything of substance in the last three hours or are you two just playing footsies under the table?” Former Agent Denise Christopher called over her shoulder while stirring the spaghetti sauce. “Those anomalies in time aren’t going to catalogue themselves.”

“Hey Denny, how’d everything go?” Flynn leaned against the countertop, dipping a spoon in the sauce. She swatted his hand away a few seconds too late. “Needs rosemary.”

“Everything could use rosemary these days. Be grateful we have salt.” Elbowing him out of the way, she reached into the cabinet and handed him a stack of plates. “Everything went fine and we got the intel. Now, go make yourself useful.”

“I’d rather have a look at the info,” he argued as he set the table.

Denise dropped a pot holder in the center, followed by the noodles and sauce. “I’m sure you would, but we’re going to sit and have family dinner.” Flynn opened his mouth to retort and she held up a hand and placed a small dish of grated cheese off to the side. “No ifs, ands, or buts. Now sit. That means you two as well.”

They made it through the meal before devolving into a late night planning session. When the next batch of intel was meant to arrive. What districts needed extra food and who could get it there. The usual details of the ongoing fight.

Flynn started a pot of coffee. “We need something big.”

“That’s gonna have to wait.” Jiya stopped him before he really got going. “I was online today, scanning the boards, and stumbled across a name that started popping up round these parts in the last few weeks.” Shuffling through the papers and books, she found the stack she wanted and lay them out. “Every mention talks about her like she’s the second coming of David Rittenhouse himself.”

“What’s the name?” Flynn picked up a highlighted sheet and froze.

Denise leaned over, scanning the page. “Does that say Lucy Preston?” She snatched another page off the table. “Like…”

“Like Flynn’s Lucy Preston?” Jiya finished the question for her.

“Not _my_ anything.” Flynn growled.

Jiya shrugged. “Fine. Like Lucy, I met Garcia Flynn in a bar in Sao Paulo once and told him we’d make a good team, Preston?” She smirked at him. “Yes. That Lucy.”

Flynn eyed the generous pile of research. “This is far more than a couple weeks. How long have you been keeping an eye on this?” He glared at Rufus and Jiya knowing they were in it together.

“Six months,” Rufus answered, never breaking the stare. “And before you say anything, it just looked like she was on a welcome back, Kotter tour of America. We had no idea she planned to settle here.”

 _Why was Lucy Preston in Detroit?_ “What do we know about her?”

Jiya pushed a file at him. “Not much. Apparently she’s been abroad and the family brought her back.”

“The family?” Denise asked, reaching for the file.

“She’s old school.” Jiya sorted through the research as passed her the right page. “Daughter of Carol Preston and Benjamin Cahill. Traces her lineage back to the old man himself.”

The group fell silent, absorbing the new information. Flynn studied her file, it contained nothing much unexpected; private school, undergrad at Oberlin, grad student at Stanford.

“Spent the last two years traveling through the major libraries of the world?” Flynn barked out, incredulous. “Who does that?”

Jiya looked up at him. “Well, I mean, that just about sounds like a perfect vacation to me.” Her brows furrowed. “Though two years does seem a bit excessive.”

“And just so happens to coincide with the first Collections.” Something pricked at his brain, begging him to follow the thread. He tugged back, wondering if he wanted to see the best in her. Over the years, the memory of that night never dulled, and in light of everything that followed he’d built her into an avenging angel. Thinking, one day she’d come again to save them all. He removed his rose colored blinders.

She’d been Rittenhouse the entire time.

 


	2. The Gathering Shadows

**RHF** ****  
****  
**FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:  
The First Annual Workhouse Games  
7/23/2018 - 7/28/2018**

_The Rittenhouse Family proudly announces the First Annual Workhouse Games. For five days, the Collected will compete in a series of games in order to win the mercy of the Family, wiping out all debt and thus earning their freedom. This week of remembrance is designed as a reminder of the sacrifices made during the Dark Days. Every ended life, every grieving mother, every Forgotten citizen ensured the welfare of those deemed worthy for the continued survival of these United States._

_The Family also proudly announces the return of the favorite daughter, the woman destined to succeed Nicholas Keynes, Lucy Preston. At the culmination of the Games, on Saturday evening at eight o’clock, a ball will be held in her honor where she will bestow the winner with their freedom._

_All citizens are expected to celebrate whether in person at the Arena or at their designated viewing areas._

xxxxx  
_July 16, 2018_  
_The Bunker_  
xxxxx

Jiya’s jaw dropped as she read the press release displayed on the battered old laptop. “When does it end?”

She swiveled the screen for the rest of the team. Rufus stared aghast, but Denise and Flynn’s faces hardened.

“We can’t let this go on.” Flynn’s voice came out as flint chips, all edges and sparks.

“No, we can’t. And we won’t.” The table jumped as Denise pounded her fist. “I want ideas on how to hit them hard. I don’t know how much more of this people can take. They’ll break soon and probably for good.”

“There’s been an uptick in incidents in the other zones we’re in contact with.” Jiya pulled up the stats. “Ann Arbor, Kalamazoo, Traverse City, Chicago, you can see it branches out from there. We don’t have as much information from the west, but I can dig further into it.”

“Not surprising,” Flynn leaned back in his chair, “food’s getting scarce again. Hunger makes people angry, desperate. Eventually a kicked puppy will grow up and bite you.”

Rufus’ gaze met Flynn’s. “Then we use that.”

“What do you have in mind?” Denise sat down.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about how Flynn keeps saying we need something big to bring attention to the cause, and these Games seem like the perfect time to remind people of everything we’ve lost.” He laid out the three stage plan, making it clear that if they did this, there was no going back. The world would know their names and faces.

“So all or nothing, we stand or fall one final time. We can’t fail.” A round of resigned yet determined faces watched him as Flynn considered. “I’d like to offer an amendment to the plan. It’s good. but I think we need someone on the inside.”

The team shared looks of shock and alarm. Denise shook her head. “You are not going undercover at Rittenhouse. I won’t allow it. You’re far too important to risk. You keep this district safe and give us room to do the work we need to do.”  

“Good, because I won’t be going undercover at Rittenhouse, at least for long. Jiya, you need somebody to get you inside the mainframe, right?”

She gave him a reluctant nod knowing the plan required it. Somebody had to go in. “He’s the obvious choice, given his NSA background. Easier for him to adapt to the situation. We certainly can’t send Rufus in and no offense, Denise, but Flynn’s more effective when it comes to making the hard decisions. You’re our details person. We’re gonna need you to keep him safe.”

She surrendered, knowing they were both right. “Okay, how hard am I going to have to work to keep you alive?”

He offered her a heavy smirk, “Actually, I need you to let me get captured.”

“You’re going to compete in the games.” She sighed. “No. Just no. It’s far too dangerous and we need you here.”

“I’ll fill Karl in and bring Win and Q up to speed, they can fill my absence in the district. Ensure the shipments and deliveries and keeping the peace. Between the three of them, we should have all bases covered. The three of you can handle everything here and you know that.”

“I don’t like this idea.” Denise shuffled the papers in front of her. “What if you can’t get out? What if you get injured? Or gods forbid, killed? What do we do then?”

“If I can’t get out, I’ll contact Win and Q. They can get me any supplies I need.” He stood, laying a hand on her shoulder. “If I die, the resistance will go on. You all will go on. You’ll have to, because Jiya’s right, I’m best suited for this mission.” He started to walk away. “I would ask one thing.”

“Yes?” She looked up at him.

“If I fall, don’t let them desecrate my body. Don’t let them use me that way.” His eyes begged her.

Nodding, “You have my word.” She reached up and grabbed his hand. “Now, where do you think you’re going? We’ve got work to do.”

He came around behind Jiya and Rufus. “You’ve got her schedule, right?”

“Of course.” They didn’t need explanation to know he meant Lucy Preston. None of them thought he’d let go of her anytime soon. Especially now that she resided within DetZ Central D. Rufus pulled up her itinerary. “There ya go.”

Flynn glanced over the list, nodding to himself. “I’ll  touch base with Win and Q, fill them in and make sure they’ve got everything they need. We’ve got time, but we need flexibility. Jiya, you and Rufus get started pulling and organizing the relevant information. Denny, do what you do best and bring it all together.” Flipping on his leather, he turned and winked at the group. “I’ve gotta go introduce myself to a girl.”

xxxxx  
_The_ _Citadel  
_ xxxxx

“Mother!” Lucy grabbed the press release from the board. “What is this?”

Carol glanced up from her computer. “The Games?”

“No, the ball.” Lucy gritted out. “I told you I wanted no undue fuss about my return. If the people are going to love me, I need to earn that love. I won’t be able to do that if you’re parading me around like a princess.”

Her mother removed her glasses, folding them and placing them to the side. “Lucy, I know you’ve been traveling the last couple years, but you need to remember we’ve carefully cultivated this entire world.”

“Yes, I do remember. I’m the one who saw the weak points in history. The ones that continue to make this world possible.” Crossing her arms, she leveled her best glare at the woman who raised her to know her place. “And I am the next to ascend after Nicholas.”

Carol rose, coming around the large mahogany desk. “And you would do well to remember that I am the reason you can stand before me with all your youthful arrogance. I can change your path just as easily.”  She picked a piece of lint off her daughter’s blazer. “So, you will do what I tell you to do until the day you take your rightful place. Then, and only then, will you call the shots. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mother,” Lucy replied, chagrined.

Carol pressed a palm against her cheek. “Now, you have an appointment at the dressmaker’s this afternoon. Choose something in burgundy, but nothing too revealing. We have standards to uphold.”

“I planned to tour the city later this afternoon.” She bit her lip afraid of pushing her mother when she got in one of her moods.

She smiled sweetly, “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry, there’s far too much to do in preparation for the Games. Maybe after everything settles down, we’ll arrange for you to greet the citizens.”

“Are the Games really necessary? I mean no disrespect, but, I don’t understand the point.” Lucy sat in the chair in front of the desk.

“We all believe that people deserve a chance to better their lives.” Lucy nodded, agreeing with this basic premise. “This way they have an opportunity to wipe away a lifetime of debt for one week’s worth of risk instead of years spent toiling in the factories. That’s sounds worth it, don’t you think?”

“Yes, of course. We are, after all, doing all of this for them.” She straightened and let it go, focusing on the next task at hand. “I’ve been thinking about our next tweeks. I feel there’s a few more events that with manipulation would be beneficial for the citizens. Make them a bit more content, happier.”

“Yes, yes, that’s good.” Grabbing her glasses, she put them back on, focusing on her daughter. “I am so proud of you, Lucy. Truly. You’ve stepped into your role in the Family with integrity and heart. You’ve taken the citizens’ wellbeing as your personal crusade and if you could see their smiling faces, you would know. You would feel their gratitude.” She reached across the desk. “They will love you, don’t worry.”

Lucy stood, ready to move about her day. “I’ll speak to Mr. Mason about the tweeks and start planning the mission.”

Her mother nodded, “Yes, good. Oh, and Lucy, take Wyatt with you this afternoon.”

“Mom…” She felt fourteen again, denied an ability to move around without watchful eyes.

Carol stared over her glasses. “Lucy, this is non-negotiable, your life is too precious. But take Jessica too if it makes you happy.  Now go, I have work to do.”

“The wind at your back,” Lucy replied, kissing her mother on the cheek.

“The sun on your face,” came her mother’s automatic response.

xxxxx  
_MacReynolds  
_ xxxxx

“You’re gonna do what now, Boss?” Q raised an eyebrow, disbelieving Flynn could be so stupid. “For an old man, you’re pretty dumb.”

Win smacked his arm. “Q! What are you doing? What if he dies? How’re you gonna feel then, huh?”

“Right.” He joked, but hung his head, feeling bad. He fiddled with the old flip phone Flynn had given him. “Sorry.”

Flynn laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Win’s apparently already got me in the ground.”

“No! NO! I didn’t mean it that way--GAH! That’s not what I meant,” she tried to explain, panicking.

“Win, it’s okay.  You’re scared, both of you. I get it. I’m scared too. But something’s gotta change. You know that. ”

“But why you?” Q tried to hide his voice breaking.

Flynn leaned over the bar so he could look the kid in the eye. “If I’m not willing to risk my life for the cause, how could I ask anyone to follow me?”

Win slipped her hand into Q’s, her voice certain. “Flynn’s too stubborn to die, aren’t you?”

He saw through her off handed remark. “I’ve got the two of you watching out for me, I’ll be just fine. Now remember, you need anything, _anything at all_ , get in touch with Karl. he’ll stop by to check in with you regularly, but don’t hesitate. You’ll only be able to text on that phone and only to me, Jiya worked her science magic on it so you’ll be my only communication with the team. I’m trusting you because you two can go places they can’t. Got it?”

“Got it, Boss,” they said in unison.

“Tell me again what the emergency phrase is.” He stared them down, not unkind, but instilling the importance.

“Starfish and coffee,” Q answered.

He turned to Win, “And the all clear?”

“Maple syrup and jam,” she said, never breaking eye contact.

“None of this should matter for another week, but this could change and I need you guys to be ready.” Flynn cleared his throat of the rising emotion. “Now, if you two could stop making googly eyes at each for long enough to set up the bar, that’d be fantastic.” He pretended anger, but they knew better, he was the closest thing to a father either of them had anymore.

Q smirked at him, “Are you going to meet Looooooocy now?” He batted his eyelashes in mock flirtation.

Flynn growled and stalked around the bar. “What is it with everyone’s obsession with her? I met her once. That’s it.”

“Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that. I’ve seen your face when you tell that story,” Win teased him.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” he quipped, ending the conversation with the old joke between them, a reminder of their mutual past. “You remember that night, right?” He didn’t wait for their answer, he knew it already. Flynn drew both of them in. Technically teenagers, technically adults, they were both scared. “I will always protect you, always come for you, no matter what. And if I die, you still have Mama Bear, and Jiya and Rufus. They love you just as much as I do. Don’t ever doubt that.”

Win wiped away an errant tear, putting on her tough face. “Get out of here. We’ve got work to do.”

Grabbing the fedora he kept by the door, he turned away from them. “I’ll be in touch.”

xxxxx  
_Enchanté_  
_Central District_  
xxxxx

Wyatt leaned back in his chair, eyes half closed against the mundane goings on. He let the chatter of Lucy and Jessica, discussing waistline and draping and hem length, drift away, leaving them to their lady things.

“Earth to Wyatt, calling Wyatt.” Jess waved a hand in front of his face. “Come in.”

He grabbed her hand, holding it for a second. “Did you need something?”

“I’m dying for a latte and I saw a coffee shop a couple blocks down.” She tucked her leg beneath her. “What do you say we pop down and leave Lucy to her silence. You know how she gets with these things.”

“I’m supposed to keep an eye on her,” he tried to say with authority, but Lucy could tell he craved alone time with Jess.

Suited her just as well, “I’ll be fine, won’t I, Michele?” Lucy’s face begged the stately older woman.

“Absolutely, mon chérie. Safe as houses.” The dressmaker waved the young couple out the door. “Shoo, shoo, go enjoy the sunshine.”

“We won’t be gone long. I’ll bring you a cappuccino.” Jess called as she and Wyatt sauntered into the street.

Lucy relaxed. “I know we’ve all been friends for years, but I have to admit that between Wyatt’s brooding and Jess’ babbling, I might have gone insane.”

“You are ever so welcome, Lucy.” Michele turned as the door opened again. “I must apologize, sir. We are closed--” she broke off and smiled. “Oh, Monsieur Paulo, it is good to see you again.”

Flynn bent down and kissed both her cheeks. “Bonjour, Michele, it’s been far too long. Things have been good for you then.”

“Oh, yes, thank you for asking. But, you must forgive me. As you can see, I am otherwise occupied.”

“Of course, I apologize, Miss…” He tipped his hat and then held out his hand for Lucy to take, studying every reaction. She looked different, but not overly so. And despite the indelible impression she left on him in Brazil, she appeared oblivious to his identity.

“Preston, Lucy Preston, Mr. Paulo. I’m pleased to meet you.” She blushed under his scrutiny, taking him by surprise. He kept in mind that Rittenhouse raised her, who knew what she learned under their tutelage. She would be adept at hiding or revealing at her discretion.

“Well, I didn’t mean to interrupt, I only came to order a new tux for Saturday. The previous measurements will suffice, Michele, thank you.” Flynn would ensure she got a new delivery of fabric for her efforts. She needed that more than money. Leaning down, he offered Lucy a dazzling smile. “You must be excited, it isn’t often a lady gets to indulge in such frippery.”

Her laugh erupted from her, shocking him in its honesty. “If only my mother would allow me avoid such frippery, as you put it, I would be much happier.” Her lighthearted words turned steely. “I’ll tell you a secret.” She beckoned him down, whispering in his ear, gleeful and sarcastic. “I am not the woman you obviously believe me to be.”

“I meant no disrespect.” He offered, eyes breaking her gaze in contrition. “I only meant that during times such as these, it must be nice to let the worries of the world go for a time.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by times such as these?” She cocked her head and looked to him for explanation.

Confused, Flynn searched for the words to respond. It couldn’t be possible that she really didn’t know, could it? As he began to ask her, the door opened again, and he backed away.

“Forgive me, Miss Preston.” He nodded to her as a man with a severe military cut came flush to his right and a traditionally pretty blond placed herself next to Lucy. “Michele, someone will be by later this week to pick up my suit. Thank you in advance for all your help.”  

“No need for the apology Mr. Paulo. I am not so thin skinned as all that.” Her back tensed when Wyatt stepped in front of her.

“Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan, Delta Force. State your business, sir,” the Army man bristled with focused intent.

Michele twisted her fingers together, stressed, frantic to avoid any kind of confrontation. Lucy stepped between the two men. “I apologize, Mr. Paulo, this is Wyatt, my friend and personal security. I’ve known him for years, ignore him, I usually do. Wyatt, Mr. Paulo was just leaving.” Turning back to Flynn, she offered him her hand. “It was very nice to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see each other on Saturday.”

Her hand felt tiny in his. “That we will, Miss Preston. I hope you’ll save me a dance,” he said, hoping she would blush again.

She did not disappoint.

xxxxx

Flynn stalked into the street, conflicted. Everything they’d uncovered about Lucy Preston told him she espoused the beliefs of Rittenhouse. Practically royalty, as the daughter of it’s two highest Lieutenants, she would have little choice.

_I don’t know what you mean by times such as these?_

The clean, brightly lit streets of the Central District devolved as he walked south, past the Arena where in a week’s time he’d risk everything. He argued with himself, debating the possibility that she really had no idea what lengths they’d gone to and how ugly life was for most of the citizens. Though the previous world, the real world, was far from perfect, anything beat the sharp, unending sorrow he saw on the streets every day.

The team would never stop fighting for that real world. They just needed to steal back the Lifeboat and they could start to putting things right again.

A realization crept into his conscious mind as he passed through the last checkpoint. Night fell and shadows gathered in the alleys. Broken street lamps flickered as he fought to understand. The woman in Sao Paulo had been older than the woman he met today. Not by much, but that Lucy bore a heavy burden to the lighthearted innocence of the girl in the shop. Not too mention, though it could be a cover, he’d swear she’d never met him before in her life.

He remembered the pleading tenor to her voice in that Brazilian bar. How desperate she seemed and how defeated she’d been as he turned her down. She’d known him, he felt it in his bones. And not from a passing moment or two. From the way her body reacted to the smallest kindness, leaning into him, holding back. The touch of her hand as she tried to stop him from leaving. The way her broken spirit called out to him seeking solace, protection, help.

He couldn’t explain why, but some time in the future, she finds him in the past, begging him to take the journal. Could it be possible she'd join the fight and work _with_ them? Against Rittenhouse?

He turned into the alley that took him around MacReynolds, ducking behind the fence and into the drain pipe. Shaking his head, he entered the bunker certain of only one thing: Sao Paulo still waited for Lucy Preston.


	3. Once More Unto the Breach

xxxxx  
 _MacReynold’s_  
July 21, 2018  
xxxxx

“Here’s your papers for The Citadel. They’ll get you past the front desk security and into the elevator. I’ve hidden a virus that will knock out their cameras thirty seconds after they scan them. After that, you’re on your own. You’ll have ten minutes before their system updates and comes back online. That begins the countdown until they pinpoint your location.” Jiya pushed a map of the building across the table. “The mainframe is on sublevel five. Take the service elevator on the opposite side from sublevel four down to five. That’ll bring you right into the room with the servers. You’ll want the third row on the right side. You’ll need the fifth server from the left in the middle row,” she explained, pointing to the one she meant.

“Ten minutes, gotcha. What do we know about the guard situation?” Flynn flipped through the manilla folder.

Rufus shrugged. “Nothing, unfortunately. We only got the schematics because Jiya found them on an old forgotten website.”

“You’re going in without a weapon,” Denise added.

“You know how I love my guns.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to relieve one of the guards of theirs first thing.”

The group tried to laugh, but fell silent, gathered around the old wooden bar. Their week of prep screamed past them as they imagined every eventuality. Rittenhouse revealed nothing about the Games beforehand; he was going in blind. Not like he could take anything in with him anyway, so life meet moot point..

Flynn didn’t know what else to do. Ever since he stepped off that plane in Detroit four years ago, he’d been chasing destiny. Following bread crumbs and fumbling through trying to keep them all alive. Everything’d gone to shit the moment he left Sao Paulo. He ran, little choice remained to him after he walked away from Lucy Preston. Seven cities on three continents in two weeks before he stumbled bleary-eyed into his mother’s arms.

He’d lost his entire life and went to the only place he could, home. His mother fed him, forced him to shower, and put him to bed in his childhood room. Staying there forever appealed to him, but every day he lingered, danger crept closer to the only family he had left.

Looking around at the family he formed, he’d give anything to keep them safe. To give them a life worth living, without the scraping by and the constant battle to beat back Rittenhouse. Where they could raise families in the sunshine, not hiding beneath an island.

Denise ducked down beneath the bar, rising with a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand. She reached for the glasses and lined up six shots.

“How long’s that been down there?” Flynn asked with fake annoyance. “It’s swill, but it’s whiskey all the same.”

“Hence why you had no idea it was there. I saved it for the right moment.” She pushed a shot towards him and turned to Win and Q. “You two, special occasion. As long as you promise to stay in tonight, you can join the grown-ups.”

They both hesitated wondering where their usually strict Mama Bear went. “Wait, for real?” Win spoke for the two of them.

She laughed. “It’s the end of the world, I think you can have one drink.” Besides, she couldn’t deny them this moment with Flynn. She raised her glass, “This next week is gonna be brutal and if everything goes as planned, we’ll set in motion a series of events with no emergency brake. But before everything goes sideways, let’s remember this night, before any of the fighting begins, while we’re still together.”

Flynn raised his shot. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.”

“For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother,” Denise finished for him.

A round of clinking glasses accompanied Rufus as he added, “To those who are about to rock, we salute you!”

xxxxx

Flynn followed the path through the subterranean salt mines that spiderwebbed underneath the city. Finding the tunnel maps in old Town Hall had been a godsend when they started and needed to move about without the watchful eye of Rittenhouse. Tonight, he checked in with all the bases in RD3, retreating to the underground relay station so he could ensure the heads of other Zones stood ready for the battle to come.

“Hey Bam Bam, how’s it going here? Everybody call in?” Flynn picked up the logs and sat down in the metal folding chair in front of the makeshift desk propped up on old milk crates and covered with radio equipment. Black and orange cords and wires snaked up the walls and disappeared into the passageway behind it.

The clean cut soldier moved one half of the headphones he wore off his ear. “We’re good in Michigan. Out of Ohio we’ve heard back from Cleveland and Columbus, only Chicago in Illinois though. You know it takes time to pass the message and response back and forth. With the Games being broadcast nationwide, the word will spread. Don’t worry, they’ll be ready.” He fiddled with a knob and turned back to Flynn. “How about you? You’re taking a huge risk going in there.”

“So everyone keeps reminding me,” he replied not looking up from the data. Bam Bam stayed silent waiting for Flynn to continue. He sighed and dropped the logs. “I’m the only one without any ties in what’s left of the world. If a sacrifice needs to be made, it should be me.” Jiya revealed his death to him when they started, and though he’d accepted it long ago, only he and Jiya knew the end of this path.

Bam Bam tried to reason with him,“The resistance needs a leader and that’s you. You stepped into the void when people were terrified and starving.”

“We all did, I wasn’t alone. If I die, the movement will go on and the team will finish the mission. But if not me, then who? Rufus has Jiya and Denise’s kids are still alive somewhere. I can’t ask her to abandon them. And what about Q and Win? They need a real family, not a broke down father figure who cares nothing whether he lives or dies. The only thing that matters, the ONLY thing, is taking down Rittenhouse.”

The soldier threw his hands up in surrender. Whether or not Flynn believed himself the leader, those who followed him did. “Understood. Don’t worry about us here, I’m in just about constant contact with Jiya, and with other outposts checking in, we’ll be ready when the signal goes up. I’ll be there when you need me.“

Flynn stood, pacing the open space, his black clothing stark against the white salt walls. “Remember, after the ball, things are gonna heat up, but they’ll still need to simmer after that, get the word of mouth going as far and wide as possible. That way once the last fuse is lit, the rebellion will spread like wildfire. We need Rittenhouse otherwise occupied for everything to go off without a hitch.”

Bam Bam stretched his legs out in front of him. “We’ve got this, I swear it.” He stood and clasped the man’s hand. “You’ve been an inspiration for so many, let us carry the weight for awhile. Just focus on keeping yourself alive.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” He tugged the man in. “Keep them safe for me.”

He nodded. “Even if it means my life. You have my word.”  

xxxxx  
_The Citadel  
_ xxxxx

Nicholas Keynes sat at the head of the table listening to the end of day updates from each of the districts. Some trouble in the outskirts, nothing to really worry about. When Lucy appeared in his doorway, he dismissed everyone, standing to greet his great granddaughter.

“Lucy, I’ve been waiting for you. How was your day?” He gestured towards the leather armchair arranged in front of the glass coffee table in the center of a small sitting area. He pressed a button and called to his secretary for coffee.

Lucy seated herself, pulling out a laptop and placing it on the table. “My mother should be here shortly, but I’ve been working on our next mission.”

Nicholas got comfortable across from her. “Have you?”

“Yes. I’d been thinking about what you said about factions of the populace being unhappy. That you thought the small tweeks left a residual memory in the collective unconscious. Bigger changes alter more of the landscape and require absolute acceptance for the brain to adapt. Keeping people in their places has proved more difficult, the tweeks aren’t working as well. You’ve mentioned some minor skirmishes.”

“Nothing you need to worry about, I assure you.” He played off the simmering resistance.

“No, of course, but what if we got them used to the idea of boundaries earlier? What moment in history could the government have declared martial law and no one would’ve blinked an eye?”

Nicholas found himself intrigued. If they penned the populace in earlier, they’d be easier to control now. They could nip any rebellions in the bud.

Carol entered the office followed by Emma. “Is my daughter laying out her brilliant plan?” She and redhead filled in the last seats as a mousy brunette secretary served the coffee.

“She was just about to tell me what she had in mind.” He beamed at the woman who’d eventually replace him. Molding her had been easier than he thought. Her mother made the right decision to send her away while they did the dirty work of creating the future they desired.

“As I was saying,” Lucy leaned forward excited at the prospect of making things simpler for the citizens she would one day look after. “When in recent history could the government, meaning us as Rittenhouse, have instituted martial law and people would have just gone along with it?”

Emma caught up quicker than Nicholas. Probably because it’d made an indelible impression on her. “You wanna go after 9/11.”

“I do. Afterwards, people were terrified, paranoid. We control them by giving them safety, making them trust us early on. Get our name out there, so to speak.” She glanced over the group hoping they understood. “We don’t have to spill any blood this way, just condition people to be more pliable, more accepting. So that when the walls go up, people view them as protection.”

Emma smiled at the younger woman. “I’ll admit, it’s a damn good plan.”

Carol swiveled the laptop to face her. “I assume we still have sleepers in place at that point? We used them for the election, if I remember correctly.”

Lucy searched her brain. “Yes, we did. That was my last active mission before I went traveling.” Nicholas and her mother shared a look. “We didn’t pull them out, did we?”

“No, of course not.” Nicholas assured her. “This is some fine work, Lucy. I’d like to see a flushed out mission plan in the next three days.”  
  
She smiled and rose to get back to it. “I’ve already got Anthony and Connor on the jump parameters. I think we should use both ships for the mission. That way we can spread out the manpower while we arrange everything.”

Her mother stopped her. “Lucy, don’t stay up researching all night. You have a big week ahead of you, don’t tire yourself out before you start. You know how important first impressions are.”

“Yes, Mother.” As she walked away, she couldn’t help but think of Mr Paulo and the impression the tall, imposing man left on her. Entering her rooms, her piles of history books scattered over every surface waiting for her, she realized, for the first time, she was excited for the ball.

xxxxx

Flynn finished his rounds and found himself standing beneath an oak tree in the shadow of the Citadel. The tall obelisk towered over the rest of the city, a single dull light shone out of the blocks of opaque glass that ran up the central staircase. No other windows broke the stone surface. What did the ominous building contain? What lay hidden behind its impenetrable walls? He‘d find out soon enough.

He thought of Lucy in a room without sunlight and it saddened him. Did she ever just wander the streets on her own? Or was she as constantly watched as the populace? Studied for signs of dissent? He wished he could shake his thoughts of her, but Sao Paulo haunted him.

His mind wandered back to his flight from his mother’s. By the time he landed in Detroit, the world had changed. An infinitesimal difference, but he felt it in his bones. Within twenty-four hours, he knew the truth: that his fate awaited him no matter what. Within a week, the team faced off against Rittenhouse and failed. Epically. When they returned, the world no longer resembled the one they’d left behind. They’d had to abandon the Lifeboat and barely escaped with their lives.

He’d known then that walking away from Lucy had allowed evil to take hold. This world a direct descendant of his denial of fate.

Learning Lucy had settled in Detroit confirmed what he long suspected, that they were destined to work together. But how he could he trust her? Trust a woman raised in Rittenhouse? No, too much depended on this for him to allow that kind of vulnerability. His heart might want to trust her out of some misguided image he’d created of her over the years. That didn’t make it smart.

“Hey Boss,” Karl sidled up to him. “Maybe you oughta not hang out here all night mooning like a school boy.”

Flynn grimaced. “If I’m the boss, why are you always such a smart ass? Shouldn’t you offer to fetch me coffee or run off at my beck and call?”

“Not in the job description. And you picked me, too late to turn back now.” They both moved onto the side street, heading back to the tunnels. “We’re set for tomorrow. Once they arrest you and you declare your intent to compete, you’ll be taken to the barracks outside Warehouse District One. On your way back there, after your first day of games, I’ll be waiting for you to pass by so I can get you the phone.”

“Good. I trust you.” He stopped the man walking next to him. “Also, thank you for taking the kids under your wing. They’re gonna need you.”

Karl grunted. “Don’t think I’m taking them on full time. You’re a stubborn son of a bitch and you’ll be back ordering everyone around again soon enough.”

Flynn let it go as they started through the maze of passageways again. He knew Karl wouldn’t let him down. “When we get back, I’m going to address your insubordination.”

“Anything you say, man,” the thinner man snickered.

“One more thing--”

Karl finished for him, “Keep an eye on Lucy Preston. Already done.”

“I want to know everything whenever I finally get a chance to get away. With it being the old army barracks, it shouldn’t be too hard, but I’ll have to see what kind of security they have in place before I make any moves.”

They came to the crossroads where they’d part ways. “I’ll staying above Mac’s until you’re back, but not a minute longer. You got responsibilities, don’t try and shirk them off on me. I ain’t the hero type.”

“So you say.” Flynn retorted, heading to the basement entrance to Mac’s. “I’ll see you Monday night.”

Karl huffed, grabbing the ladder that led to the surface. “Try not to die.”

xxxxx  
_The Bunker_  
July 22, 2018  
xxxxx

Flynn woke early and slipped out of his room, enjoying one last cup of coffee before the team rose for the day. He didn’t need any long goodbyes. Wanted his mind clear when he walked through the doors of the Citadel for the first time. Once his foot crossed the threshold, he gave in to his destiny, however it played out. In what felt like another life, fate offered him a hand to hold, a partner in this fight against RIttenhouse, and he refused.

This mission served as redemption for that betrayal of his duty. He finished his mug and rinsed it out, returning it to his spot on the counter. He nodded to the empty room and grabbed his old army jacket. Double-checking his cargo pants for the zip drive, he took one last look around. He hoped the team would forgive him for leaving without saying goodbye, but he couldn’t second guess himself now.

Without a look behind him, he strode away from the life he’d built from the ashes.

Exiting the drain pipe, he squinted in the brilliant sunlight and retrieved a pair of aviator glasses from his pocket. Getting across town made simple with Jiya’s forged papers and his military dress. Sooner than expected he stood once again in the shadow of the Citadel. This time he did not linger.

_No time like the present._

Flynn crossed the street with purpose, like he had every right to be there. He flashed his papers at the panel next to the doors and they whooshed open.

He stepped in the Citadel for the first time. Chrome and white marble surrounded him. Clean, sterile, regimented within an inch of its design. Uncomfortable beige chairs dotted a small sitting area off to the right side. With no windows and harsh fluorescent lighting, the space had a washed out feeling. As if someone bleached out reality. He approached the reception desk hiding the creeping dread that stalked behind him.

“I’m here for a nine thirty meeting with Anthony Bruhl.”

The nondescript woman in tan continued typing, “Papers.”

Flynn slid them across the surface as she glanced up and took them, running them under the scanner. She scrutinized him, deciding he must not look like a terrorist, and passed the papers back. “Thank you. Third elevator on the right. The wind at your back.”

“The sun on your face.” He tucked the papers back into his pocket and headed to the proper elevator. Jiya made sure his “appointment” gave him a reason to take the elevator to the underground levels, but that would only get him to sublevel four. Once he exited he gave the guards five seconds to react. Enough time to disarm one, claiming the weapon for himself, and focusing on whoever remained.

Pressing the button, the silver door opened and then closed behind him and he checked the time on his watch. Countdown, ten minutes. He watched the lights above the door indicate his descent. Sublevel one. If Jiya’s virus succeeded, the cameras should be down. If not, it’d be a short trip to the Barracks without getting the zip drive in. Sublevel two. Forcing his body to relax, he drew in several deep breaths, centering himself. Sublevel three. He waited. Prepared for the fight. Get a weapon. Find the server. Sublevel four.

The door slid open and he stepped forward, scanning the hall. Two guards, one to his left, one to his right. He grabbed and snapped the right wrist of the left guard, bringing him to his knees.

Flynn bent down, relieving the man of his gun and his consciousness. “Thank you.” By that point, the right guard had his weapon aimed. A roundhouse kick knocked it away and a right hook left the man in a crumpled heap. “Don’t point if you aren’t prepared to fire. Otherwise,” he bent down and retrieved the second gun, “you’re just handing your enemy another way to kill you. Lucky for you, I’m trying to impress a girl, so I’m not gonna do that. I will, however, take your key card.”

The rest of the floor held little other than rooms full of filing cabinets. He checked his watch, nine minutes left, and decided to poke around. When else would they get a better idea of what Rittenhouse was hiding in this creepy ass building? He pulled a file at random. _Rosa Parks. December 1, 1955._ Who the hell was that?  Reading the file, his stomach churned. He put it back and removed the file in front of it. _Brown v. Board (1954)._ Opening it, what he read made no sense. Brown versus the Board of Education was voted down. Plessy v. Ferguson stood as the law of the land. He scanned further realizing what he held were mission notes. His heart dropped when he came across the name of the architect of the mission. Lucy Preston.

He shoved the file back in the cabinet and moved with renewed intent. He needed the extra time to pay a lady a visit.

Getting in and out of sublevel five, and inserting the zip drive, proved easier than he expected, leaving him six full minutes to address the questions that plagued him regarding a certain beautiful brunette. He located a map of the building on a fire exit sign and walked past the two still unconscious guards, straight to the main elevator. She wouldn’t be in the penthouse suite, but being Rittenhouse royalty afforded her a privileged residence. Didn’t matter, the pass key gave him access.

The elevator stopped one floor from the top and opened. He immobilized two more guards, one of whom donated his key card to Lucy’s room. No hesitation, he strode right in as if he owned the place. Books cluttered every surface, papers, pens, charts, whiteboards covered with black scribbles. He smiled to himself at her nerdiness before remembering he sought answers from a Rittenhouse agent.

His eyes narrowed on her as she straightened from where she bent over a laptop.

“Mr. Paulo,” she cried out in surprise. “What are you doing here? How did you get in? This is highly inappropriate.”

“Don’t bother yelling for your guards, they’re quite incapacitated.” He crossed the room and settled himself on the plush dark grey couch. Leaning back, he propped his feet on the coffee table, nudging a pile of folders to the side with his boot. “I’m gonna ask you a few questions, so you might as well get comfy.”

Her body tensed, ready for whatever he threw at her. He refused to be impressed. She sat, careful not to fold her arms over her chest. “You have questions? I have nothing to hide.”

“Rosa Parks.” His blood burned through his veins, angry at the woman for her part in the manipulation of history.

“I’m sorry, who?” Lucy pretended ignorance.

He surged to his feet. “You know damn well who I’m talking about. Don’t play dumb with me.” He stopped short, only inches away, towering over her. “How could you do it? I would assume someone who loved history as much as you appear to, would want to protect it? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

She stood, going toe to toe with him. “How dare you! Everything I’ve done is for the good of humanity, of history. Small pockets of insurrection don’t outweigh the happiness the citizenry experiences under the guiding hand of Rittenhouse.”

“Small pockets of insurrection?” he asked, incredulous. “You’ve really sucked down the kool aid there, Lucy.” He stilled and studied her reaction as he asked, “Have you even seen what your meddling has created? Or do you just stand here in your ivory tower, reading your charts and graphs, not realizing the whole time you’re messing with people’s lives?”

She stepped back from him. “Of course I’ve seen the effects,” she denied, but Flynn saw the panic and worry flash across her face.

He glared at her. “So you were here for the Collections when they ripped children from their parents’ arms? You watched as your goons gunned down citizens in the street for the simple sin of fighting for their freedom?” He stepped closer again. “Did you see their faces as they died?”

“None of this is true,” she retorted as she folded her hands over her chest, but Flynn saw the doubt in her eyes. “Rittenhouse wants the best for our citizens. You’ve been misinformed.”

“You’re completely clueless,” the realization overwhelmed him and he stumbled away. “You have no idea the damage you’ve caused. The heartbreak, the pain, the suffering. I saw it all.” He sighed, “I’m sorry, Lucy, but it is you who’ve been misinformed.”

Her false bravado broke and her face fell. “I don’t know what you mean. Please, explain it to me.” _Had her entire life been a lie?_ He watched the question skitter across her expression. She pleaded with him and he saw the woman who came to him in Sao Paulo, “I don’t understand.”

He wanted to comfort her, to pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be okay. He was with her now, they’d set it right together. But time ran short and words were useless without proof. That he couldn’t offer her right now.

Instead he closed the distance between them and kissed her. Bold, without a thought of permission. She hesitated, but didn’t pull back, fitting herself into his arms. Her tongue darted out, tasting his lips and he unraveled, plundering her mouth as her lips parted, inviting him in.

He lost himself in her softness, forgetting about the time until he heard pounding footsteps in the hallway. He dragged himself away from her red swollen lips, from the passion that spilled from her eyes.

He bent his head to hers. “I will tell you the truth, I promise. But I fear I will be otherwise engaged for the next few days, so I’ll ask for your patience and trust.” He stepped to the center of the room as the guards piled in, a plethora of weapons pointing in his direction.

“On your knees,” several guards commanded.

Lucy’s hand touched her lips as he went to his knees, hands lifted in surrender. “Don’t worry. Everything’ll be fine.” Two guards wrenched his arms behind him, locking cuffs around his wrists.

“Garcia Flynn, you are under arrest for breaking and entering, trespassing on private Rittenhouse property, and the murder of your wife, Lorena Flynn and daughter, Iris.” The guard yanked him to his feet. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Lucy looked horrified, but nothing could be done about that. The time had arrived.

“I declare my intent to participate in the Games.”


	4. Bread and Circuses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer of a chapter this time around. Enjoy!

xxxxx  
__ July 23, 2018  
The Arena  
xxxxx

The rumble of the arena thundered through his bones, vibrating his nerves, tension wrapping itself around him. Flynn forced his muscles to relax, glancing around at the other fighters clad in scraps of leather that barely covered the major arteries. The tunnel reverberated with the thousands gathered above the two lines of silent men waiting for the gates to open. They were the first fourteen contenders and the crowd bayed for blood, eager for the entertainment of death. 

He studied the back of the small man in front of him, watching the almost imperceptible shake of his shoulders. He laid a hand on his shoulder and a teenager turned around to face him, unshed tears lingering in his eyes. 

“Mark,” he pulled the boy into his arms, shocked to see Denise’s son here. Jiya’d been unable to locate him. “What are you doing here?” 

“Garcia?” His tears crested his lids and he buried his face against Flynn’s leather armor. Mark pulled back, anxious. “How’s my mom? Did you get her away? Is she safe?” 

He gave the boy a moment to collect himself. “Yes, your mom’s fine, I promise. But what are you doing here? I’m sorry we couldn’t find you, but you can't be here.”

His shoulders straightened as he answered the older man. “It’s Olivia. They’re going to sell her to one of the C-Zoners.” Mark gripped his arms, eyes darting from side to side. “I need to get her out. You know what will happen if she’s purchased.” 

His stomach plummeted as he imagined what would happen to the sweet girl. He wouldn’t let that happen. “Do you have a plan?” 

The teenager shrugged in embarrassment, “I have no idea, honestly. I just knew this would be my only chance.” 

Flynn squeezed the bridge of his nose. “And if you died? What then?” 

Mark’s smaller frame sagged. “I couldn’t just leave her there.” 

“I know.” He gazed down at the young man. He knew how much losing Mark and Olivia weighed on Denise. They’d tried so many times to infiltrate the workhouses, but there was no way to know where the children lived. And here her son was, willing to sacrifice his life on the off chance that he could save his baby sister. “Stay near me. I’ll keep you alive through whatever faces us and get you out tonight. You’re going to need to be ready to move when I tell you to. Can you do that?” 

Mark nodded. “For Olivia, anything.” 

“You might not like the rest of my idea though, because I need you to wait to go after your sister.” He looked like he was about to argue. “No. That’s the deal. If you don’t agree, I’ll take you out of the games myself and ensure that you face a long recovery. ” He raised an eyebrow and stared down the young man. “Better than you being dead and of no use to Olivia at all. You’ll tell your mom, Jiya, and Rufus where your sister is and only then are you to go after her. You cannot do this alone. Do you understand?” 

“I don’t like it, but I figure you’ve kept them alive this long, so I’ll trust you.” They clasped hands, sealing the deal. “What do you figure they’ve got in mind for us out there?” 

A grim determination came over Flynn’s face. “I have no idea, but it’ll be bloody.” The crowd erupted above them, their stomps and cheers vibrating the very walls of the tunnel. The gate ahead of them began to open. “Time for the bread and circuses.” 

xxxxx   
_ The Arena _   
xxxxx

The excitement coursed through her despite her misgivings about the Games. The energy infectious as she scanned the assembled crowd. Lucy worried for Garcia Flynn even as she doubted the little he told her before his kiss ruined her for other men. She twisted her fingers waiting for a glimpse. 

“Stop fidgeting,” her mother commanded as she swatted her hands apart. “You can't still be thinking about that man after what we told you.” 

Her eyes skirted her mother's glare. “He could be innocent,” she said, fearing her mother would read the disbelief warring with her upbringing. He didn't seem like a man who would kill his family. 

“Lucy, seriously. He broke into the Citadel and your rooms, those are not the actions of an innocent man.” Carol smoothed her beige pantsuit as she crossed her legs. 

“That’s just it, if he’s guilty, why come to the Citadel at all?” She half-turned in her chair so she faced her mother. “He had to know we’d arrest him. So why do it?” 

Her mother set down her glass of Chardonnay. “This man murdered his wife and child in cold blood, Lucy. We have the files. I can have them sent to your rooms, if you’d like. But I warn you, the images included are quite graphic. I don’t recommend you look at them.” 

“I’d like to see them, nonetheless.” She straightened her spine. If she’d been blind to the reality of Rittenhouse, she wanted the truth. 

“Of course, darling. Whatever will end your fascination with this man.” Carol patted the back of her hand. “Thank goodness your father is working on a marriage for you. When he finds the right alliance, we'll see you settled with a man worthy of the future leader of Rittenhouse.” 

“I might have to rethink that decision.” Benjamin Cahill interrupted the conversation, setting himself on her left side, buffeting her between parents. “What is the fifth commandment, Lucy?” 

Lucy leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Honor thy father and mother.” 

“Correct. Now be a good girl and stop arguing with your mother.” A waiter in all black appeared at his side with his usual bourbon old fashioned, then faded again into the background. “Let’s focus on the good we’re about to do with these Games. Someone needs a fresh start, to embrace their future unencumbered by the sins of the past.”

Lucy smirked, feeling sassy, “Even if that someone is Garcia Flynn?” 

“Even if that someone is Garcia Flynn,” her father gritted out. “Though he doesn’t deserve it. The man is a terrorist, Lucy and I won’t have you obsessed with him. It’s unseemly.” 

As it always had, her father’s disappointed voice caused her to drop her head in chagrin. “I’m sorry.” She looked up, tentative. “I just want to know everything I can so I can best serve our people.” 

He sipped his cocktail. “You do that by listening to your elders. You still have much to learn, Lucy.” 

“Yes, father,” she complied, but her doubt lingered. She’d read his file and decide for herself. Putting that aside, she felt the rumble of the crowd as the Games roared to life. She had only one worry now: that Garcia Flynn wouldn’t make it out alive. 

xxxxx   
_ MacReynold’s _   
xxxxx

No one spoke, transfixed as the American flag and National Anthem took over the televisions that hung over the bar. Couples gripped hands beneath the tables. By now, everyone knew that Flynn had been arrested and chose to compete in the Games. Rumors spread like wildfire around the district within hours of his arrest, turning him into an even bigger folk hero than normal, though only the core group knew the truth. Still, those closest to him gathered at Mac’s. 

Win twisted a white towel in her hands as she stared up at the screens while Q hid in the far corner pretending nonchalance. Karl sat at the end of the bar, next to Flynn’s stool, nursing a beer. Denise glanced over all of them, tense and terrified, and knew after this nothing would be the same. Either they’d succeed and the world would be none the wiser, or they’d fail and likely none of them would see the end result. Their blood would run in the gutters. 

She leaned to Jiya who stood wrapped in Rufus’ arms and whispered, “Everything set?”

“Yes, I embedded the final code this morning.” Jiya bent her head closer. “The file’s uploaded and just waiting for the timer to wind down to activation.” 

Denise turned her head to look at Rufus. “You sure you’re okay with all this?” 

“Yes, my family deserves more. Deserves to know that wherever they are, I haven’t stopped thinking about them, trying to save them.” Jiya squeezed his hand. “They’d do the same for me.”

“We’ll fix it or die trying,” Denise promised him. 

Rufus smirked, “Well, let’s try and avoid the dying if at all possible.” 

The three of them turned back to the television as the National Anthem faded and the voice of Nicholas Keynes filled the bar. 

_ In the year of our Lord, twenty fourteen, the world that surrounded all of us grew out of control.  _

Video of wildfires played under his voice-over blending into images of riot and war and starvation. Children and their concave stomachs, flies swarming their young faces. 

_ Left to its own devices, the world would soon descend into chaos.  _ The bombing of Hiroshima. The World Trade Center.  _ Lucky for humanity, my ancestor, David Rittenhouse, saw this inevitability and prepared us to take over when the time came.  _

A scratch of static shot across the screen and replaced the images of destruction with kids playing a game of basketball in the middle of a neighborhood street lined with older cars. Groups of friends and families sit on the stoops watching, chatting about this and that, the stuff that brings people together in the heatwave of the summer. Up the street more kids are running through a gushing fire hydrant, but the old home video focuses on one boy. Gangly still, before the years molded him into the tall, lean young adult he became. He wove through the other kids with an untrained grace. 

Rufus’ voice fills the bar, warm and welcoming where Nicholas Keynes’ sent a chill warning even in it’s apparent kindness.  _ This is my brother, Kevin Carlin. A good kid. Made good grades. Had a crush on a girl at school that he wanted to impress.  _ The images changed, flipping through Kevin as he grew up, dressed for his first day of high school, sitting playing video games on the old brown couch. In his basketball uniform his freshman year. Standing in front of the mantle with their mom in his first tux for the school dance. 

_ That’s my mom. She worked two jobs for most of her life just to keep me and Kevin in clothes.  _ Another home video showed the two brothers decorating their mother with garland as she slept in the recliner in front of the Christmas tree.  _ She did the best she could. Went to work with holes in the soles of her shoes so that we ate three square meals a day. Even when those meals were left in Tupperware in the fridge, waiting for reheating.  _

More pictures scrolled past. Rufus holding Kevin on that same brown sofa the day he came home from the hospital. Rufus helping his brother learn to ride a bike. Years of Christmases passed as the family aged in photos, their smiles heavier, but ever present. 

_ And what was her reward? _

The scene changed to the footage Jiya hacked from the mainframe. Rufus’s mother and brother stood shoulder to shoulder with their neighbors on the sidewalk in front of the stoops. A man in a military uniform held a clipboard out in front of him as the soldiers under his command dragged their neighbors from the line. 

_ The Collections.  _

Rufus remembered the day all too well even if he missed the line-up because he was coming home from Mason Industries. Flynn yanked him into an alley as he ran towards his family. They took his mother first and then, after Kevin tried to stop them, his brother. Rufus watched helpless as Rittenhouse tore apart his family. 

_ What was her sin? Credit card debt from taking care of me and my brother. They stole my family from me. Just like they stole yours.  _

His voice-over fell silent as the rest of the video played out. He watched as mother’s name was called. Saw his brother take a swing at the soldier who grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back and closing handcuffs around his wrists in one smooth movement. From this camera angle, he knew the instant his mother saw him down the street and the imperceptible shake of her head. Don’t risk your life, Rufus, she seemed to say. He still regretted his choice, but he would make it right. 

One last series of shots showed the differences between the Central Zone and the Outskirts. The shining versus the dirty. The open spaces and the narrow alleys. The light and the darkness. 

_ This is not the world as it should be. These Games are an anathema to the country we pledge allegiance to. There will come a time in the near future where you will be asked to make a choice. Will you sit back and let more families be torn apart? Or will you choose to be on the right side of history? _

The screen went black. 

Denise looked to Jiya and Rufus, “We lit the match.” 

xxxxx   
_ The Arena _ _   
_ xxxxx

“What was that?” Lucy whipped her head to look at her mother. 

Carol leaned around her daughter to her husband. He nodded to her and only then did she focus on Lucy. “We didn’t want to tell you this way.” 

“Something tells me you didn’t ever intend for me to know this.” Her mother reached for her and she pulled away, disgusted. “That soldier with the clipboard was Wyatt. All of you knew about this and kept it from me. It’s why you sent me away, isn’t it?” 

“It was in your best interest. You’ve always been so emotional.” She folded her hands into her lap. “You have to understand, Lucy. This was the only way. We’ve always known that the lower classes wouldn’t go along with this without incentive. His family is fine, I promise you. All those people are fine. But the future we planned needed productive members of society, not a welfare mom without the sense to keep herself out of debt.” 

Lucy blinked back incredulity. “Her children would have starved.” 

“She should have worked harder.” Carol motioned for another drink. “You can’t believe that this world we created came without a cost? You aren’t that naive, Lucy. This is what you were raised to know. This world. Everything in its place.” 

“Everything in its time,” she responded without thought. She hated this, but now that she knew what happened, what was happening, she could work on fixing it. Still simmering with anger, she appeased her mother, “You promise those people are all safe?” 

Her mother leaned back in her chair. “Of course, darling. Just working off their debt. Now, sit back and enjoy the games. ”  

xxxxx   
_ The Arena _   
_ Playing Field _ _   
_ xxxxx

Flynn stepped out into the stadium, the ground covered with a rocky sand surrounded by stone slabs that formed the walls of the enclosure, and stared up at the roaring crowd that encircled them. They’d come for blood. He checked out the field. Two stone circles jutted out at the top of the wall, around the midpoint where they’d entered. Chains dangled from between the slabs at uneven levels. Holes pockmarked the surface of the stone, but he couldn’t discern the reasoning behind them. 

In the center of the stadium an MC dressed in a toga held out a single ball. Once he held their attention, he dropped it to the ground with a thud. 

“You have forty-five minutes to get that ball through one of those two hoops,” he pointed to the top of the twelve foot wall. “Whichever team scores the most moves onto the second set of games. The losers stick around to cart off the bodies after the next round of competitors. Any questions?” When no one spoke he walked in between the two lines, handing half of them blue arm bands and the other half, red. “Blues, start on that end. Reds, opposite end. Make it a good show, boys.” 

Flynn moved the other direction with the other Reds, now his team. “Mark, remember, stay near me.” 

“I know you aren’t going to like it, but I’m not sure how much that’s gonna be possible. But you get my back, I’ve got yours.” 

The National Anthem began and both teams fell to their knees as expected, hand over their hearts. The small rocks dug into his bare knees, but all his attention was on the screen. He sang with the masses waiting for the interruption of the propaganda. As expected, once they took control of the feed, the crowd fell silent. Flynn risked a glance up at the boxes where he knew Lucy and the rest of Rittenhouse sat. The minions in the background scurried into action. They’d never stop it in time. Rufus’ story would be told. He hoped Lucy was watching, wanted her to know the truth, even knowing what a rude awakening awaited her. 

The video screen drew his attention again when Rufus’ mom appeared, but this time he knew the man that held the clipboard. Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan. He wished the man stood before him so that he could kill him for what he’d done. What would Lucy do when she learned the truth?

But he didn’t have the time to consider the question further since weapons dropped over the top of the wall and they all scrambled into action. 

“Let the games begin,” the MC announced now safely tucked away in his box. The crowd erupted, their blood thirst reignited. 

“Mark, you go for the ball, we’ll cover you.” He barked orders to the others. “Get a weapon and form up a barricade on either side of him.” 

None of them hesitated as his Tran headed to the sides to get what weapons they could. Flynn burst into motion going for the sword closest to him. He skidded to a stop, picking it up and eyeing the knife a few feet away. He made the split second decision to go for it and was met by a large barrel chested man swinging a long-handled axe. Flynn rolled, scooping up the knife as the head of the axe puffed up the dirt where his head had been. 

He adjusted and swept out a leg, bringing the big man to his knees. Flynn scrambled to his feet, clutching his weapons and kicked the man into unconsciousness. One less enemy combatant. 

He made it across the field about the same size as a basketball court and placed himself in front of Mark who wrestled the ball away and backed up into the forming circle of men.  

A lean black man wielding a hatchet sidled up to Flynn. “Left or right?” He slashed at the man coming at him with a baseball bat, chips of wood spraying up where the weapons connected.  

Flynn looked between the two hoops that served as goals and half-turned to the rest of the group. “Left. On three.”  

He counted down and they moved as one, pushing back the other team. The opposing six men tried to push forward, but they weren’t working as one. Flynn's red team fought them off as they inched closer to the goal. The man with a crooked nose on his right sustained the first injury as a sword from the other team sliced across his thigh. 

“You okay?” He yelled to the man over the crowd and the clash of metal. 

The man swiped at the blood that dripped down his leg. “‘Tis only a flesh wound.” 

They had the Blues on the retreat, but needed a hard push for the first goal. He moved closer to Mark, the two men on either side filling in the gap he left behind. 

“You think you can get yourself up that wall?” Flynn sized up the boy and the wall, while tucking the knife into what served as Mark's belt. “You might need that.” 

Denise's son studied the stone slabs. “Yeah, but I'm gonna need to get some momentum built up with a run. Get me to the left side of the hoop. The chains should serve as steps and handholds.”

Flynn nodded and rejoined the front line, turning to the man at his left. “Push to the left, we’re gonna get Mark to the hoop.” 

“Gotcha, Boss. Name’s DJ by the way,” he said as he kicked at a man who tried to stab him with the pointy end of a Bowie knife. He explained the plan to the next man until all seven of them were on the same page.

“Flynn.” He slashed at the flabby man scuffling in front of him, trying to break their line. A distraction while the opposing team pushed back the men behind him. “We need to do this now. Go!” He yelled and they moved, bracketing Mark as he shot towards the goal. They closed in around him as his foot hit the bottom of the wall. He tucked the ball under his arm, reaching for the chain just above his head. 

Flynn focused on the men coming at them. Baseball bat swung at him and he brought his sword around, cutting him across the right bicep. He dropped the bat, clutching at his arm and falling back. Two down. Though, who knew how long barrel chested guy would be out. He checked on Mark’s progression and watched as he started to slip back down before grabbing another chain and pulling himself up, the toes of his soft-soled boots scrabbling for purchase. 

The ball started to slip from his grasp and his foot slipped over one of the pockmarked holes in the wall. No sooner had he gained a toehold, a stainless steel spike shot out, grazing Mark’s ankle and slicing through the leather. But he didn’t let it fluster him and used the spike to propel his body up, dunking the ball smoothly through the hoop and sliding down the wall to chase after it again. 

The crowd burst into applause at the close call and ensuing goal. The number on the scoreboard ticked up, Reds: 1 Blues: 0. The timer kept shedding the seconds, thirty minutes left. The game moved on. 

His red team lost two players, one took a hatchet to the back of the knee, the other a knife to the kidney. A burly man with legs like tree trunks crushed the ribs of a Blue who launched himself at Mark as he ran for the fumbled ball. Flynn sprinted after him, jumping over a mace as it swung at his legs. He pushed forward, reaching for the baseball bat, seconds before it cracked his ribs. He slowed the momentum, but it still connected, enough that it was gonna leave a bruise. The barrel chested man with the axe lumbered his way towards Denise’s son and Flynn tossed the bat away focused on protecting his friend's son. 

He flung himself at the larger man, crashing into him around the midsection and they both fell to the ground in a tangled heap. Flynn ended up on top, but not for long. The man’s arm shoved against his chest, knocking him to his back on the rocky sand. A large, dirty paw crushed across his throat cutting off his air flow. He clawed at the man’s meaty forearm, trying to pry it away. Stars swam across his vision, air fast becoming a necessity. He watched through his dimming vision as the Blue team scored, tying the game. 

The man’s other hand held his head in place and he leaned down, whispering in Flynn’s ear, “Benjamin Cahill sends his regards.” 

Flynn didn’t let his surprise get the best of him and took advantage of the closeness of their faces to slam his forehead into the bridge of the man’s nose. Blood sprayed down onto his face and the man ripped off his helmet as he flailed away. He surged to his feet, gasping, and came up behind Mark in time to stab the man who had the boy pinned to the wall, about to slit his throat. 

The body dropped to the ground and Mark’s words tumbled out of him. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t stab him. I thought I could, but I couldn’t. I’m so sorry.” 

He gripped the boy by the back of the neck. “Stop, you’re just a boy, you shouldn’t be able to kill people yet. Now, let’s get that ball into the hoop so we can get you out of here.” 

DJ and the man with the crooked nose backed up to the two of them. “It’s just us now, Flynn,” DJ called over his shoulder. “What’s the plan?” 

Flynn looked up at the play clock, five minutes left. “We got just enough time to get Mark to the goal one last time. It’ll make or break the game for us.” Three pairs of determined eyes stared back at him. “Alright, Mark, stay to the back. We’ll use the walls to cover your back and fight our way through whatever comes.” He spared a quick moment for the man with the crooked nose. “What’s your name?” 

“Brandon,” he said, out of breath, but ready for more. 

“Alright, Brandon, I’m Flynn and this is Mark.” 

DJ chastised him as he fought off the man with the hatchet. “Less chit chat, more fighting. We’ll have time for tea back in the barracks.” 

“Then let’s do this.” 

xxxxx   
_ The Arena _ _   
_ xxxxx

Lucy gasped when the nameless fighter rose from the ground without his helmet. Garcia Flynn, covered in blood, his injuries evident in the way he held his body. She watched him gather the last of his team together and held her breath, the seconds counting down as Flynn's red team fought their way around the field. She admired his grace as he fought sword to sword with another man, pushing him back, taking the young man closer to the goal. The instant the boy scrambled up towards the hoop, the Blue team launched a full on attack, pressing their backs into the wall. 

Flynn struggled to hold his sword braced against another. Lucy stifled her cry, covering her mouth with her hand. He couldn’t die, not now, not before she got to know him. Her desire to see him again surprised her, but she didn’t fight it. She’d figure it out later, after he survived. 

The boy with the ball used the spikes intentionally, triggering them as he climbed higher. Lucy sat on the edge of her seat until the ball went through the hoop only moments before the buzzer sounded, signalling the end of the first match. Covering her face with her hands, she scrubbed at her eyes, willing away the tears. Her parents wouldn’t approve and she loathed the idea of another lecture after what she’d just witnessed. 

Every second of this new world she stepped into, tentative and unsure, brought her closer to Garcia Flynn and took her further from her parents sharing a look behind her back they didn’t think she noticed. They had lied to her about the Collections, who knew what else they’d kept from her. For her own good. 

Well, it was about damn time she got proactive about what she deemed necessary to her life. She’d get the answers she desired, she just needed to get the Barracks rosters. 


	5. It Can't Rain All the Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you find yourself surrounded by things you're grateful for. Second: I apologize that this chapter took so long to get out. I got distracted by MiniFics (Timeline Threads) and metas over on Twitter. But I'm back and present and all that good jazz. 
> 
> Enjoy. There's some good Garcy in there for y'all this chapter. 
> 
> xoxo  
> SNP aka Outlaw Clockblocker
> 
> ps...leave a comment if you feel so inclined.

The throng swarmed as they exited the Arena. Good. Easier to get Mark away. Flynn tucked the boy into his side and scanned the crowd for Karl. The guards kept them moving forward, but did nothing to block the crush of people. Some trying catch a glimpse of a loved one, a hand to hold that confirmed life. Some come to heckle and harass. Others simply to assure themselves their lives could never get that bad. They’re not like--those people. 

Garcia Flynn heard the whispers and reigned in his rage. For all of Rittenhouse’s talk of the happiness of citizens who knew their place, human beings craved more. Keeping some down while elevating others didn’t create equality, it stoked anger and resentment simmering just below the surface. They’d go along with it for awhile, if offered enough incentive to play the game, but they would snap, sooner or later.

An elbow shoved in his ribs, jostling him against Mark, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Flynn hissed out, “How are you?” 

“Better than you.” Mark tried to get out from under his arm, it didn’t work. “Your ribs are likely broken.” 

“Nah, just cracked, I’d know. Keep moving.” Flynn ducked his head, keeping his peripheral vision on the crowd. 

They filed through the Checkpoint RD3 closest to the Warehouse District and he felt the eyes of his people, but ignored them. No need to draw attention. Karl would find him soon enough, he’d be pissed Garcia decided to remain behind, but they couldn’t both get out. Reuniting Mark with his mother took precedence. The woman deserved the peace of mind. After Wednesday’s games, he’d get back to Mac’s and they could start planning Olivia’s rescue.

Too many minutes passed.  _ Where the fuck was Karl?  _

xxxxx

Lucy slid down the wall of her bedroom and cried. She didn't know what was real anymore. Rittenhouse raised her to believe in one thing, Rittenhouse. What if her entire life proved a lie? 

Before Garcia Flynn entered the scene, she had a firm grasp of the world, navigated it with ease. After, the ground disappeared beneath her feet and she found herself scrabbling up the side of a mountain, clutching at falling rocks and twigs, searching for a handhold.  

Who did she trust? 

She scrubbed at her face. Refused to collapse in the face of adversity. No matter how easy her life, she was no shrinking violet. Not so easily cowed. She needed truth. Did she dare ask it of this stranger? How would she know if he lied? 

She wouldn’t. Toeing off her shoes, Lucy leaned against the bed frame, wracking her brain for even a semblance of a plan. It’d be helpful if his face stopped swarming her thoughts. With his face came the memory of his lips and that was definitely off-limits. 

Definitely. Her fingers feathered over her lips as she remembered how he claimed her mouth. Bold, sure, as if that kiss had lived in stasis inside him, collecting energy with every movement of his body, until he released the full force of it. Her pulse raced at the memory. His hands, unbidden, roamed her body, phantom promises. All from the way he held her for less than sixty seconds. If he ever got his hands on her again...she shivered in anticipation. 

Lucy pushed off the floor before she got too distracted. Daydreaming over Garcia Flynn wouldn’t answer any useful questions. Moving into the kitchen, she started a pot of coffee and seated herself at the old wooden dining table. A yellow legal pad waited there and she grabbed it, listing every question that came to mind. About the Collections and the events while she toured Europe. The duties she shirked while wandering through the galleries and museums. What good is seeing every painting and sculpture in the Louvre if she didn’t know the story of her own people? 

She was tempted to search the Archives, but doubted it’d tell her anything. If there was one thing she was sure of about Rittenhouse, it’s that they’d never keep the truth in written records. Easier to erase if no one told the story. 

Lucy filled pages with questions until her thoughts twisted and spiralled away, becoming a madwoman’s Venn Diagram. Pushing away from the table, she placed her mug in the dishwasher and closed the door. The edge of the marble countertop pressed into her back. She couldn’t sit still any longer, at the end of her patience. 

If she was being honest, she wanted to ask Garcia Flynn herself, but needed some way to know if he was telling her the truth. 

She still needed his file and doubted her mother had any intention of bringing it to her. Most of the time the files held nothing more than name, birthdate, city of birth, nothing you couldn’t find on your own. But they accused Garcia Flynn of murder, likely his file contained a wealth of information. She jogged back to her room, changing into a pair of black leggings and sneakers, pairing it with a dark red, almost black, top. She pulled her hair back in a simple ponytail, tugged a dark grey military cap down over her forehead, and picked up her favorite old hoodie. She looked like she was going running. 

Not that she needed to hide, she had access anywhere. Technically. But she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Her parents kept her carefully sheltered, she’d prefer not to answer their probing questions. If it came to a conversation, they’d insist on sending someone with her. She'd be trapped by a babysitter who certainly who would not allow her to go visiting The Barracks.

No, she’d have to move quick, but she'd get his file and the truth on her own. Then armed with evidence, she’d confront Garcia Flynn and force his hand. 

xxxxx

They closed in on the border of the Outskirts and the Fallow Zone. The Barracks stood behind a half-finished steel barricade. Apparently anyone who wanted to die in the Badlands between cities was welcome to it. Rumors of fathers desperate to reunite with their children, daughters with parents, sons certain that Sally from high school must’ve made it as far as Chicago, filtered through the districts. They never stood a chance. Rittenhouse left their bodies to the scavengers, a boneyard of dying hopes and dreams. A bleached white warning that screams “Turn back now, before your skeleton forgets your name in the cracked, endless wandering.”

Desperate to find Karl, Garcia Flynn scanned the silent crowd. The further one got from the Central District, the more somber the people who gathered to witness the parade of prisoners. He had to be lurking somewhere close by, but Flynn worried he’d not be able to get Mark out and it had to be done now. The Games would get harder as the ranks of fighters narrowed, he was just a child still, no matter how grown he appeared. He didn’t have the training to survive what lay ahead. 

_ Finally. _ “There he is,” he whispered to the boy. “Be ready to move when I tell you. Stay low, keep your head down. Do exactly what Karl says when he says it, don’t hesitate. Accept that he is the only thing keeping your throat from being slit and your body left for the crows.” His eyes bored into the boy’s. “Do you understand?” 

“I get it. It’s for Olivia, I’ll do whatever’s necessary.” Mark nodded. “What should I tell mom?” 

“Tell her you love her.” They kept moving, finally close enough to Karl. “Plan’s changed. Get Mark out.” 

“Boss...” Karl started and Flynn’s glare quieted him. He handed Flynn’s worn Tigers hat to Mark. “Alright, kid. You ready?” 

“Yes, let’s do this.” 

Karl looked to Flynn, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

He chuckled and his ribs reminded him not to do that. “That’s always up for debate. Don’t worry, I’ll get myself back to Mac’s after the next day of Games. Now that I’ve seen the route, it shouldn’t be too hard to slip away.” He hugged Mark and move him from his right to left side and Karl’s arm replaced his. Denise’s son gave him a worried look. “I’ve got this, don’t worry. Now, go.” 

Karl gave him a curt nod and they blended into the mass of people pressing for one last glance as they approached the final gate. Guards lined either side of the tall rusted steel girders, shuttling them to the right into the long passageway that led to The Barracks. Guards filled into the unfinished parts of the walls, forgotten when it seemed easier to let those foolish enough to pursue their deaths outside the city. But with a wall made of metal and lined with men, once you reached the human cattle chute, there was no turning back.

Metal turned to concrete and a stark, square building loomed ahead. Small windows lined with bars dotted the facade without lessening the feeling of forbidden that oozed out of every crevice of the building. There’d be no escape from there. He actually wasn’t sure he’d be able to get out at all, though he’d never have let on to Karl or the kid. 

The filed into the building, one by one, their names checked off the list as they entered. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling in the old prison. The entire place smelled of dank mold and forgotten lives. Those not competing in the Games lurked in the corners, eyeing the fighters with something between disgust and jealousy, anxious for the peace of death, fearing the journey there. 

“Stop,” The tall prison guard in sharp-creased military fatigues commanded. He moved around Flynn, opening the door to the cell. “Inside.” 

An elbow went into his injured rib cage and he sucked in a groan of pain. He stepped into the simple room, taking in the bed, toilet, sink; the window smaller than he thought from the outside. He turned, facing the guard again, his face mask covering any features Flynn could use to remember him by. The bars slid closed with a ominous finality. 

xxxxx

Lucy rode the elevator to Sublevel four, the doors opened and she glanced at the two guards who looked away when they realized her identity. They learned early not to question any of the Family. It never ended well. They noted her appearance as usual, but let her pass without comment. She zipped through the rows of file cabinets, locating his file easily. Retrieving it, the army green folder nearly spilled out when she underestimated its thickness, but she gathered the papers together before they lost all semblance of organization. 

She crouched to the floor, balancing the file on her knees. The first pages were the expected stats: date and place of birth, last known address, Under relatives she noted that he had none left. His mother had been his last surviving relative and she died two years ago. Her heart felt for the man without thinking. Loneliness suffused his life. She wondered if he had friends now, someone who’d become family to him. People to share his life with. 

Flipping through the file, she came across a zoomed in photo of Garcia and his family seated around the dinner table. His wife laughing as he reached for her hand. The little girl beamed at the father she obviously adored. Lucy’s heart warmed at the love evident even in the photo. She reminded herself of their names: Lorena and Iris.

Turning to the next, she sucked in a gasp when the crime scene photos of his wife and daughter overwhelmed her. They slipped out of her hand and onto the floor, the red of their mingled blood seared into her brain. She closed her eyes, attempting to banish the images that lay splayed out at her feet. She needed to calm down to get to the truth. Closing her eyes, she inhaled, steadying herself as she swept the pictures back into the file without glancing any further. She’d learn nothing from them. 

When she gathered herself together again, she refocused on the file, finding the written report of their deaths. According to the responding officer, Garcia Flynn must’ve followed his wife down the hall when she went to check on the little girl. 

But how could a man who looked at his family with that much love have killed them such apparent ease? 

She continued her reading, the words easier to accept than the vivid images. He was NSA, but went off the grid immediately after his family’s murder. The police put out an APB, but he fled the country before they could apprehend him. They only had bits of his movements here and there until they finally arrested him in her room. Something bothered her about it, but if she wanted to get into the Barracks before it was too late, she should move. She memorized any relevant information and shoved the file back into the cabinet. 

_ Alright, Garcia Flynn. It’s about time we talk and you’re going to answer my questions _ .

xxxxx

The dull light of the bare bulb gave the room a yellow, sickly feeling. The damp wool blanket draped over the shelf in a vain attempt to dry it. The sheets appeared clean enough even if the single cot gave off a faint aroma of mildew. He leaned back, his body relaxing for the first time and the pain he’d been ignoring came flooding into his system. Just as he finally got as comfortable as possible another guard came to his cell drawing a cart with stacks of orange clothing and a off-white fabric laundry bag.  

The man looked down at his clipboard. “Fighter number 6521?” 

“Yes.” Flynn groaned into a sitting position. 

The short stocky man bent down and slid the clothes through the bars. “Gonna need you to change.”

Already on his way to standing, Flynn stripped of the blood streaked leather. The shirt and pants, though hideous and rough, clean enough to make him sigh in relief. He’d give anything for a shower, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards tonight. He leaned on the shelf, steadying himself as he pulled on the pants. Since he found himself upright again, he shuffled over to the sink, twisting the handles and only receiving cold water. Better than nothing. He watched as the guard bent to retrieve the pile of clothing, pulling on rubber gloves and tossing them in with the other discarded costumes. 

The man stood and looked back at Flynn. “Make yourself pretty. You got a visitor.” 

“Who?” Flynn asked before he could stop himself, curious who’d risk their life coming here. To see him. 

The guard grabbed the handle of the cart and pushed it into motion. “Don’t get paid to answer questions.”  

He couldn’t let them taint themselves with him. “I’d prefer no visitors.” 

“Too bad. Lady was insistent.” The guard rolled the cart away. 

If Win found a way to get to him, he’d strangle her himself. She was a handful at the best of times and had a tendency to act out of instinct. Mostly to protect her people, like Q, but he knew she’d burn down the world to get to him if that’s what she needed to do. He’d told the two of them what to expect, but what if something happened with Karl and Mark. Had they been taken? 

He scrubbed as much of his skin as possible before painfully pulling the shirt over his head. Fear puddled in his stomach and he paced the small cell despite his injuries. With the plan in motion, the last thing they could afford were complications. 

xxxxx

Karl pushed through as best he could, but as the day went on, the streets clogged with people seeking any kind of connection to another. The bars in the Outskirts would be filled tonight. After he dropped Mark off at the bunker, he’d go out a recruit some extra muscle for Mac’s tonight. They never had security per se, just a few big guys dotted around to discourage any fights inside the bar. They managed thus far to run under the radar, but that could change at any point. 

An ounce of prevention, he thought as he guided Mark into the alley behind the bar. Normally he’d go inside and take the tunnel from the office, but with the teenager on run from the Games, he didn’t want to risk anyone noticing them. 

Karl checked their surroundings before moving the garbage can and holding back the fencing for the boy to scramble through and into the tunnel. He moved it back into place once he got himself through and sprinted into the tunnel. Mark’s mother waited at the end of the passageway, but he didn’t know the way and waited impatiently for Karl to catch up. He led the boy most of the way and then pointed to the door at the end of the passage. 

Jiya heard the door to the bunker open and called from the table next to Rufus. “Karl, Garcia? You’re late. Get in here before Rufus eats all the Tuna Wiggle.” Denise grabbed the plastic spoon and starting dishing out two more bowls. 

“Mom?” Mark’s voice wavered, echoing through the space. 

His mother froze, spoonful of tuna and noodles lifted halfway to the bowl on the table. Adrenalin flooded her system. That couldn’t be her son. They hadn’t been able to find him or Olivia. Afraid to turn and find him an illusion, she stared at the movement of the noodles on the spoon. Rufus and Jiya turned towards his voice, their mouths dropping open. 

“Mom?” This time the vulnerability pierced her heart and she knew without looking that somehow he’d made it home. 

The spoon dropped, casserole splattering the table. Denise tore across the space, slamming into her son. Tears poured down as they hugged, crumpling to a heap on the floor. Rufus wrapped his arms around Jiya, holding her close as she shed tears for the reunion. 

“How?” Denise looked over Mark’s shoulder to Karl. 

“Flynn. Gave up his chance to get out.” 

“I owe him so much.” Denise tugged her son against her again.  “You competed in the Games?” She shoved down the rising panic, there’s nothing she could do about what had already happened. “Nevermind, I’m just so glad you’re home. You have to know we looked everywhere for you. I never imagined it’d be so hard. I’m your mother and I failed you.” 

“Mom. it’s okay, you didn’t fail me.” He wiped her cheeks and she’d studied his face, he’d grown so much older in the last year. When they stood together, she noticed he’d grown taller than her in his time away. “I know. I never thought you stopped searching for me.” 

She dragged him over to the table and plopped him down, overfilling his bowl as Jiya cleaned up the mess. Starving, he dug into the meager meal. Denise couldn't stopped touching him to assure herself that he was real, brushing back his bangs that had gotten long. 

When he slowed enough to take a breath, he looked at her, tears hovering on the edges of his eyes again. “I have to tell you something.” He pushed the bowl back. 

“It can wait. You need a shower. I rescued a box of your clothing from the house after you were taken. If they don’t fit, I’m sure we can something of Rufus’ that will.” 

“Stop, please.” Her hands stilled their gentle examination of his injuries. “Mom, I need you to listen. It’s important.” 

Denise stiffened her shoulders. “I’m sorry, yes. Of course.” 

“You aren’t going to be happy with me.” Mark tensed and she flinched in response. 

“There’s nothing you could ever say--” 

“They’re going to sell Olivia.” Her son stared in her eyes, the weight of his burden evident. “Garcia made me promise I’d wait to go after her until I got to you guys. He said he’d get here Wednesday night, but we can’t wait much longer than that.” He glanced away, afraid of her censure. “I should’ve gotten her out already, shouldn’t have let us be separated in the first place. I’m sorry, Mom.” 

“You have nothing to apologize for. We’re going to get her back. We’ll wait for Flynn and in the meantime, we’ll make a plan.” She straightened, standing. “But right now, you’re going to clean up and get out of that ridiculous gear. Then we’re going to have a long conversation about you competing in the Games.” 

xxxxx

Lucy walked up bold as brass to the front doors of the imposing prison. Terrified to the toes of her shoes, she let none of it escape. Her parents would learn of her visit, of that she had no doubt, but she’d never get past the front desk if she didn’t act like she had every right to be there. 

Which she did, but it didn’t ease her fear as she swiped her card and pulled open the heavy glass doors. The receptionist plastered a smile on her face as she approached the desk. 

“I’m here to see Garcia Flynn.” Lucy did the best impression of her mother and looked down her nose at the young woman who couldn’t be a day over 22. Why was she working in a place like this? She felt guilty manipulating her, but she needed answers. 

Her birdlike fingers flew over the keyboard. “Let’s see, he’s in A-Block, cell number 437.” Looking up at Lucy, she hesitated. “I’ll need to find you an escort.” 

“Then do so, please. I’m on a schedule.” Her facade of calm confidence began to crack. If the receptionist didn’t get moving soon, Lucy might explode. She finally lifted the phone and called for a guard who showed up promptly after he heard the name of his charge. 

He led the way into A-block, through the first set of gates, and out onto the grating in the prison proper. Four floors of metal walkways and stairs formed a square looking down into a lower level filled with cafeteria tables, darkened since no one occupied the space. Lucy followed the guard to the top level of cells and he pointed her in the direction of his cell. 

“Fifth cell down the ways. I’ll accompany you, Miss Preston. He’s a dangerous man, that one.” 

“That won’t be necessary, Mr…” she smiled, indicating that she’d like to know his name. 

“Mr. Washington, Miss.” He blushed and his youth showed despite the beard he wore. “I need to stay with you, I’m sorry. It’s the rules.” 

_ Crap. What would her mother do? _ “Mr. Washington, you know who I am. I assure you, there’s no reason for you to accompany me. Mr. Flynn’s locked behind bars, I’m sure I have nothing to fear.” 

“Okay, Miss…” 

“Call me, Lucy, won’t you?” She beamed at him again. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine, and I won’t say a word to anyone. It’ll be our secret.” 

His boyish face relaxed. “Thanks so much, Lucy. I really need this job, but you’re...well, you. I’ll admit, I’m a little bit scared of you.” 

She laid a hand on his shirt sleeve. “There’s nothing to be scared of. Now, just give me a few minutes. This won’t take long.” 

She crept her way down the holed grating, her body dipping in and out of the light, shuddering at the smell of dank that pervaded the entire space. She swallowed back her revulsion. Anyone who spent any time here would go mad. Anyone who only got to the front desk would have no idea and she doubted very many made it past the receptionist. The conditions in the prison got added to her list of things to change. 

As she approached his cell, her eyes adapted to the dim lighting and she could make out his shock at her appearance. 

“What are you doing here?”  _ Anybody but her. _ Flynn stalked up to the bars, banishing the memory of her pliant lips under his. “Slumming it, Princess? Or did you come here to gawk at the caged monkey?” 

His long fingers wrapped around the metal and the feeling of his hands pulling her close assailed her. Being near him was a bad idea. Lucy reminded herself he was unable to reach her. Unless she got closer. So, of course she stepped closer, Mr. Washington straightening in alert until she held her hand up, waving to indicate she was fine. If he released the bars, he could reach out and touch her. 

“I need answers.” Her body gravitated to him and it took all her strength not to wrap her fingers around his. What was wrong with her? None of her other boyfriends ever made her feel like this. _Focus._ “I need the truth.” 

His thigh pressed between the bars, drawing her eye despite the bright orange outfit. “And you think I can give you the truth?” 

Her eyes whipped back up. “Yes. I do.” 

“What makes you think that?” Flynn studied the way she drank in his body in stolen snatches he assumed she thought she hid from him. 

She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I set out to come here and demand answers. But now that I’m here, I don’t know.” Instinct brought her nearer to him. 

He stayed perfectly still, his fingers circling the bars above his head, hip leaning against the cool metal. “What did you want to know?” Lucy stopped looking at him and folded her arms over her chest. The brim of her hat covered her eyes and he wanted her to lift her gaze to his again. 

Now that she was here, she had a hard time asking him about something so private, but he obviously wasn’t going to ease her discomfort so she pushed through. “What happened with Lorena and Iris? Did you kill them?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew. The pain that flashed through his entire body wasn’t faked. 

“No.” His knuckles turned white gripping the metal. He pushed away, needing to dispel the tension. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” She stepped forward, threading her fingers through the bars. Her guard lurched into motion and she waved him off again. She wanted a few more minutes with Flynn. “I think I already knew the truth, but--” she choked off, emotion rising at her parents’ betrayal. “But I’m learning slowly my life isn’t at all what I thought.” 

He rotated and faced her again. “So why come to me? You’re Rittenhouse, I’m sure any information you want is available at your slightest whim.” He knew he was lashing out, but the mention of Lorena and Iris ripped open the old wound. 

The metal felt cool beneath her grip. “I don’t think I can trust the records.” She kicked the bottom of the gate with her toe. “And I know I can’t trust my parents. There’s so much I can’t tell you.” 

“Yet you expect me to tell you about the murder of my wife and child?” He raised an eyebrow and crossed the cell in three steps, drawing up so close he felt her surprised gasp in the displaced air. “I know it all already, Princess.” 

Her head dropped. “I really wish you wouldn’t call me that.” 

“What would you like me to call you?” His fingers slid down, covering hers. 

She didn’t pull away, enjoying the sensation of his rough hands, his thumb tracing across her knuckles. “Lucy.” 

“Lucy.” The way her name fell from his lips like a prayer started a fire in her blood. His lips, centimeters away. He leaned his forehead to hers. “Lucy, there’s so much to tell you and not near enough time.”

Decision made, she leaned forward and brushed her lips across his. She couldn’t explain any of this yet, but she would. For now, she accepted this brief moment of bliss. Too soon the guard rose, tapping his watch to indicate her time with Garcia Flynn had elapsed. 

Garcia came to a decision as well. “Wednesday. After the Games.” He whispered against her lips. “Go to the Square, I’ll find you there.” 

“How are you gonna--” she cut off her question as Mr. Washington approached. “I’ll be there.” She pushed away from the bars, leaving a stunned Garcia Flynn staring after her. “Mr. Washington, thank you for your diligence. I lost track of the time. That man is quite dangerous,” she said, distracting the guard as well as her racing heart. 

“That he is, Miss Preston.” She walked beside him, legs like jelly, unsure of what exactly just passed between the two of them. “I wouldn’t suggest you visit him again.” 

“No, no,” she mused a bit too dreamily. “No. I won’t have any further need that I can foresee.” 

She knew one thing for certain, the next time she saw Garcia Flynn, it would be on his terms.


	6. Living Is Easy With Eyes Closed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've been slow going with this story lately, I hope this chapter makes up for the wait.  
> As always, thanks for reading! You guys are beautiful and lovely and all things good.
> 
> xoxo  
> SNP

_xxxxx  
_ _July 25th, 2018  
_ _The Arena  
_ _xxxxx_

Flynn knelt with the others for the National Anthem, but his eyes scoured the obstacle course in front of them. Rittenhouse either found the zip drive that gave the team access to the mainframe or not, there’s nothing he could do about that now. He’d know the truth soon enough. Instead, he studied the weapons strung up along the ancient scaffolding with its labyrinthine stairways to nowhere and layers of traps intended to kill them, all held together by rusting I-beams.

Four entrances, one on each side of the square structure, with four groups of competitors waiting. In the far top right corner a single plank of wood led to the only exit. Make it out alive and live to fight another day appeared to be the theme of this game. Garcia Flynn had no intention of dying today.

Nicholas Keynes’ voice filled the Arena, _In the year of our Lord, twenty fourteen, the world that surrounded all of us grew out of control_ \--Flynn glanced up to see an instant of static before Denise’s face replaced the President’s on the screen, fierce. Weary, but determined.

_It was just an average Tuesday. Storms loomed in the distance while my wife Michelle and I dragged our children to the grocery store before the weather broke. The air thickened around us with every step. I thought we were racing the storm; Instead we were racing time._

Stolen Rittenhouse footage of her family played across the screen. Just an average family walking down the sidewalk in Anywhere, America. The argument Mark and Olivia had over which was better: strawberry or grape jelly. Michelle reminding her of the kids’ dentist appointments the following week. Denise holding her wife’s hand for the last time as she pulled the love of her life in for a quick kiss.

_If I’d known how the day would end..._

Video of the grocery’s security camera took over the feed. Black and white. Stark. Choppy as the family progressed through the store, freezing when Michelle reached for a basket of strawberries, changing into full color, the red of the fruit striking after the broken monochrome film.

_I’ve never eaten another strawberry._

The black and white of the security camera restarted, following them as they finished their shopping. Rittenhouse goons waited outside. “Denise Christopher, step away from the woman and the children.”

“My name is Dhriti Sirivastava and that is _my_ wife and _my_ family.” More agents filed in behind them, blocking any retreat. Every direction she looked, guns surrounded. Still she stepped in front of her family. “You won’t be taking them.”

Every single gun cocked in unison, Michelle panicked, stepping out from behind her, food laden arms raised in surrender. Color flooded back onto the screen. Denise’s scream echoed throughout the silent stadium as she watched the groceries spill out at her feet when they forced Michelle to her knees.

Wyatt Logan removed his helmet as another soldier raised his weapon. “Denise Christopher, you will be taken for Reassignment. Michelle Christopher, you have been deemed Unfit. According to the Rittenhouse Accord, your children will be taken into the custody of the State and the stain of their existence erased by your sacrifice.”

Several soldiers wrestled with Denise as she watched a single shot end the life they’d built together. Olivia collapsed, crying for her mother. Mark tried to catch her, but they dragged the children away as Michelle’s blood swam rivers around the strawberries and the clouds opened, letting loose their burden.

Denise’s face filled the screen again, the shocked silence of the crowd hanging heavy over the Games.

_They Cleansed my wife and instructed me to call her Forgotten. They stole my life, just like they stole yours. But I am here to say, I will never forget. We will never forget._

The video stuttered back into the original propaganda: the destruction of Hiroshima, the World Trade Center. Nicholas Keynes icy voice. _Lucky for humanity, my ancestor, David Rittenhouse, saw this inevitability and prepared us to take over when the time came._

Denise’s bravery stunned even Flynn. Having lived through his own family’s murder, he knew the fire that burned inside her, pushing her to the extreme. They all risked what was left of their lives with every move forward they took for the mission.

He only prayed their sacrifices would be worth it in the end.

 _xxxxx_  
_The Arena_ _  
_ xxxxx

The taste of bile overwhelmed Lucy as the image of Michelle seared itself into her memory. Wyatt stood callously by and ordered her murder. Gone was the man she thought she knew. She needed to control the reaction of her racing heart. Her parents already suspected her; she’d been asking too many questions. Disappearing at odd hours. Skittish. Tentative.

“Find me Connor Mason,” Nicholas Keynes broke her concentration as the room burst into motion. “I want to know how they’re still in the system.” He turned to the redhead at the end of the mahogany bar. “Emma, you and Wyatt stay close. If we get information, I want you ready to go.” She nodded, gesturing for him and Jess to join her.

Her mother leaned over and touched the back of Lucy’s hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just--” the red of Michelle’s blood blinded her and she shook her head against the vision. “I’m just not used to the death.”

“Everything we did was for the good of humanity. You know we couldn’t continue on the same path and survive.” Her father sat calmly among the chaos and lectured her. “This is childish behavior and I expected better of you.”

Lucy bit out a clipped, “I know the foundations of our family.” Standing, she paced, trying to contain her anger. “I simply abhor the violence. You know that.”

Benjamin’s eyes darted to Carol’s before focusing back on his daughter. “Maybe we were too lenient when we allowed you to craft the past without firing a shot. Your hands are far too clean.”

“Too clean?” She stopped and scoffed at him. “I _crafted_ the past, as you put it, to alter history so as to be unrecognizable to what came before. _I_ did that. My hands are as dirty as any of yours, I just refused to kill to consolidate our power.”

“And maybe that was our mistake,” her mother stated. “We should have required the same of you as any other Rittenhouse agent, but we indulged you since you were our daughter.”

Ice ran down her spine as she stared at the parents she thought she knew. The same mother who tucked her into bed as tight as possible. The father who pushed her on the swing in the backyard as the leaves changed color and drifted to the ground.

She turned away, unable to look at them. Her parents wished her a killer. The announcer called the first four numbers and four competitors barreled into the metallic, three dimensional maze. From her vantage point, Lucy could see every saw that whirled into motion, every weapon that swung down from the floor above with a single misstep. One competitor triggered a sledgehammer that shot out, shattering his knees followed by a spike that skewered him mid-fall. Blood drenched the floor around his lifeless body.

Lucy refused to look away. All of this was her family’s doing. This savage brutality. It disgusted her even as the crowd roared their approval; Michelle’s death already forgotten. All four men fell before reaching the exit and workers in dull brown uniforms scurried in to remove the bodies before water flushed the entire structure, turning the dirt around it to mud and making the walkways through it even more treacherous.

How could they be responsible for all of this? How could they do it? For the first time, Lucy saw the truth of her family. What they were willing to sacrifice to control this broken world.

She watched the games until her stomach churned and she fled to the bathroom. Huddling on the tiles, the marble cold against her legs matching the sweat that slicked down her back, the room spun around her. Lucy needed someone to trust and the only person who could help her might die within hours.

No. She wouldn’t think that way. She got to her feet and left the stall, bending over the sink and splashing the cool water over her face, reassuring herself that Garcia Flynn would not die and leave her alone. He couldn’t. But she needed some way for him to trust her. To see her part in it, but understand she never meant for this to happen. That she’d been naive to take her parents at their word and only just realized how much she still didn’t understand.

Gripping the sides of the stainless steel sink, Lucy stared at herself in the mirror, water dripping down her cheeks. She knew exactly what to give him to gain his trust, but was she ready to truly betray her family? Betray everything she’d been raised to believe in?

She ripped off a paper towel, drying her face and heading out to rejoin her parents. “I’m leaving.”

“Lucy,” Carol began.

“No, I’m done for today. No more blood. No more screams. No more pleas for life.” Lucy grabbed her purse and headed to the door. “I’m done.”

“Take Jess with you.” The blond looked up from her conversation with Wyatt and Emma and began gathering her things. “You’ll go straight home and wait for me there. We’re going to have a discussion about your attitude, young lady.”

Nicholas called to her. “I suggest you stiffen your spine and get on board, sooner rather than later, Lucy.”

“Of course, Nicholas--”

“President Keynes,” his clipped correction stopped her as she reached for the door handle. Fear fastening itself to every nerve ending. Lucy Preston swam with sharks, unknowingly headed straight for deepest recesses of the ocean.

“Of course, President Keynes.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I’ll expect an update on the final mission tomorrow.” Turning away, he dismissed her.

Carol crossed the room to her grandfather. “Was that strictly necessary?”

“If you can’t handle her, I will. Make no mistake about that.” Nicholas sipped his scotch. “I don’t care that she’s been groomed since infancy for this. I will scrap it all and start over. I have Emma. Barring that, I will pluck an orphan from obscurity before I let some girl’s bleeding heart destroy everything we’ve worked towards, blood relative or not.”

“Do not threaten my daughter.” She stepped closer to him. “Lucy needs a moment to adapt, not be discarded at the first sign of her accepting the world as it is. I concede we should not have coddled her as much as we did. That stops now.”

“Bring her to heel.” Nicholas turned his back on her as Connor Mason entered the room. “How in the hell are they still in the system? And you better have a good explanation. I’m already having a shitty day.”

Mason opened a screen on his tablet. “It appears they set up decoy hacks throughout the system. Where we thought they were sloppy, they layered their attack. Left one in plain sight and buried the others in layers of code. I’ve got my people on it now. We need to search through every hack to root out the base.”

He tapped his index finger on his glass, impatient. “How long?”

The older man shrank back at the coiled anger. “There are hundreds of decoys. It could take days.”

“You have two. I want this resolved before the last day of Games. I don’t want anymore surprises. The populace is already getting restless, we don’t need a catalyst for a full-blown rebellion.” His hand shot out, grabbing Mason by the collar. “Fix this.”

He stumbled backwards when Nicholas shoved him away. “Of course. We’ll get it done. You have my word.”

“Go.”

Mason scurried out of the room and Carol reseated herself in front of the floor to ceiling window, quiet and unwilling to push the man any farther today. She’d need to have a very blunt conversation with Lucy the first chance she got.

Her husband turned to face her. “You know we’re going to have to do something about her growing obsession with Garcia Flynn?”

 _xxxxx_  
_DetZone_  
_Central District_ _  
_ xxxxx

Lucy couldn’t breathe and she fumbled with the window controls, hyperventilating when she couldn’t roll down the darkened glass. She couldn’t see where they were going and it made her feel lost, like she was literally spinning out of control.

“Lucy! Lucy, honey, what’s the matter?” Jess scooted across the seat, unsure how to help her friend. She’d gone deathly pale, a light sheen of sweat covering her forehead.

“I need air. It’s too much. I can’t breathe and my heart is screaming--I--I just need air.”

Jess pounded on the privacy glass that separated the front of the car from the back. It opened, too slowly for her tastes and she started barking orders the moment a crack appeared.

“Roll down the windows. We need air back here.”

The driver kept his eyes forward. “No can do, Ma’am. I have my orders. Miss Preston is to have no contact with the outside world. I’m to take you both straight back to the Citadel.”

She pushed the top half of her body through the opening, swiping his revolver on the front seat next to him and leveling it at him. “I swear to you. I will shoot you straight in the head and take my chances with the accident if you don’t roll down the damn window. Right now.” When he obliged, she fell back into the seat next to Lucy.

“Excessive, but thank you,” the brunette breathed out. Her stomach still roiled and she let her head fall into her hands, the wind breezing down her spine. The sound of the Games over a loudspeaker filtered into the vehicle. Lucy looked up when she heard them call Flynn’s number. “Stop the car. Right now. I need to get out.”

Lucy clawed at the handle and Jess raised the gun again, figuring it worked the first time. “You heard her. Pull over.”

“It’s too dangerous,” the man protested, but pulled over when she cocked the gun. “I’ll have to get out with you. No way am I letting you two ladies go into the Square alone during the Games. God knows what could happen.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Lucy tore out of the vehicle as soon as it stopped. She needed to watch his run. To ensure he survived. Jess followed, trying to get an explanation. But she had no idea who she could trust anymore. Jess and Wyatt were together. Wyatt had done things she couldn’t even consider. How much did her friend know already? Was she hiding things from her too?

“Talk to me.” Jess reached out, stopping Lucy with a light hand on her arm. She watched as her friend studied her face as if debating internally. “How long have we been friends? You can trust me. Is it about that man, Garcia Flynn?”

 _Could she really, though?_ she thought to herself. Lucy whipped her head around to the screen when Flynn’s run started. “I can’t explain it right now,” she said by way of explanation.

“Well, I’m here for you, whatever you need.” Jess wrapped her hand around Lucy’s.

As Lucy stood there, surrounded by the eerily quiet crowd, she wished she could believe that.

 _xxxxx_  
_The Arena_  
_Playing Field_ _  
_ xxxxx

The water poured down the metal structure and Flynn watched as the mechanical game reset itself. He’d learned patience from the previous competitor’s runs. Too many rushed through, thinking speed would protect them from a bandsaw shooting out of the wall. The decapitated head that rolled off the edge, splashing down into the mud below, proved that error. But he’d been in trickier positions. Kosovo, Afghanistan, Chechnya. Winding through urban decay on the lookout for IEDs taught him the value of every footstep.

The alarm horn sounded and he crept onto the rough wooden plank leading up to his entrance to the maze. A spiked fence lay ahead of him and he took the right turn, carefully moving onto the raised grating that dug into his bare feet. He knelt down, scanning the surface for any irregularities the bite of the metal pressing through the canvas of his cargo shorts. A crack about twelve inches to the left indicated a trap and he avoided it, triggering the arrow that shot out of the wall only after he’d passed the danger.

He tried tugging on an axe that swung down from the ceiling after it tried to cleave his body in half, but apparently they weren’t for use in this game. If he faced any of his fellow competitors, he’d have to take them down with his bare hands. Flynn prayed he wouldn’t have to kill anyone even as he steeled himself for just that eventuality.

He had to survive and the odds weren’t good. Only a quarter of the contestants made it to the end so far. Well, he’d just have to be better than them. A scream distracted him and a ramp dropped down in his path when he stepped without thinking. Several jagged metal saws rolled down the track and he retreated, thankful he’d already set off the traps behind him.

A long hanging bar caught his eye and he ran at it, using the wall to launch his body high enough to grasp at it, hanging there as the saws rolled back into the floor beneath him. Dropping down again, he skirted around the ramp, catching a glimpse of a stairwell to his left. The exit to safety lay on the top floor and he still had three more to get through without losing important parts of his body.

Jogging up the stairs, he felt something give beneath his feet and the steps collapsed into a long slide, dumping him back onto the first floor. He clambered back up the surface, using the rivets and bolts as footholds. Reaching the next floor, he stayed in a crouch examining the space. Another scream cut off abruptly and a fellow competitor died, blood raining down through the holes in the floor about fifteen feet away from Flynn.

 _One less person to worry about,_ he thought guiltily. He proceeded through the winding hallways, setting off traps he could see and paying the price for the ones he missed. His left shoulder jammed and bruised when a metal plate sprung into his path, knocking him to the ground. His right calf with a gash from a knife that sliced out when he didn’t jump back quick enough.

He had to retrace his steps several times before reaching the second to last floor. A series of conveyor belts greeted him surrounding a single raised platform in the center of the open space. A second man appeared opposite him.

“Shit,” Flynn muttered under his breath as he propelled himself onto the first conveyor belt, waiting for the trap to spring, testing the parameters of the game. No way Rittenhouse let anyone get this far without making them dance through the danger. A jolt of electricity shot through the soles of his feet and straight up his back and he jumped off one track to the next. Almost as soon as he touched the metal grating, it split apart and a series of bone saws sprung up in the middle, moving in the opposite direction. He jumped forward again and kept moving this time. He had about two seconds of time on each conveyor belt before the trap released.

Another competitor went down somewhere below him, but Flynn ignored his cries of anguish, focusing on making it to the platform first. He darted across the floor as quickly as he dared, earning another wound when he stumbled on his second to last jump, going down hard on his left knee and a knife stabbed his upper thigh. He pushed through the pain, making it to the platform five seconds before the light-haired thin man barreling at him.

He scrambled for the chains to climb for the last level. His left shoulder screamed in agony, but Flynn held tight, kicking out at the man when he launched himself at his legs. The man tottered backwards, releasing a catch in the platform. His last competitor’s face froze in horror as the platform broke apart and he plummeted to his death on a bed of spikes that erupted from the floor below.

Every screen in the stadium played the man’s death in full technicolor glory as Flynn dangled helpless from the chain. Rage flooded his system as the crowd cheered. He dragged his body up until his feet gained a tentative perch on the edge of the platform, enough that he could reach up to pull his body up onto the last level.

Without even time to gather his breath, he felt a ripple of some kind of mechanism setting into motion. He shoved himself up, taking a good look around the arena. He stood eye level with most of the crowd even if he was still too far to make anything out. He spared a split second of thought for Lucy before the entire floor began to shake.

In the far right corner, he saw the hanging plank that led to safety. His future lay fifty feet away. Flynn burst into motion when he felt the floor tilt. With every stride, the surface disappeared beneath him. Forty feet. He pushed himself through the blood loss. Thirty feet. Flynn ducked and almost lost his balance when lines of maces dropped down from the I-beams above, swinging into action.

He lost valuable time regaining his footing. Twenty feet. Weaving jagged through the spiked metal balls, several catching against his skin, blood running rivulets down his arms and legs. He would not give up. Too much depended on his survival.

Ten feet. His bare feet slick against the metal grating, for the first time he truly feared he wouldn’t make it. But he remembered Mark pleading with him to save Olivia and it was enough. One last burst of adrenaline propelled him forward and he lunged for the plank as the last of the floor disappeared.

For what felt like an eternity, Flynn hung in the air. He felt the edge of the plank first, crushing into his already bruised ribs. His landing knocked the air from his lungs, but when he could finally breathe again, he gasped in, thankful to be alive. His body had taken another beating, but Rittenhouse failed to kill him yet again.

 _xxxxx_  
_Central District_  
_The Square_ _  
_ xxxxx

Tears streamed down her face as she clutched at Jessica’s hands. He survived. Flynn survived and she would see him tonight. Watching him evade death, she knew she’d tell him everything. Any man willing to risk his life for his cause deserved the truth. Even if it turned him away from her. She had to try.

She thought of her family, her friends that she’d known for as long as she could remember, sitting there sipping cocktails as citizens risked life and limb for a chance at their freedom. She’d never questioned her upbringing, why would she? They kept her safely sheltered. But as she glanced around at the gathering of people, she noticed their tears, their clasped hands. No one paid attention to Lucy, too lost in their own grief.

This is what her parents were afraid she’d see. The hopelessness. She looked again, this time also seeing the determination buried deep beneath the surface fear. Garcia Flynn gave these people something to hope for. He may not have come out as the leader of what seemed to be a simmering resistance, but Lucy knew, without a doubt, that this was a man who could unite them all into a fight for a future worth living for.

Jess tugged her friend in, close enough that they could whisper and not be overheard, but it just looked like one friend comforting another.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

Lucy really wanted to trust her, she just couldn’t risk it. Not yet. But there might be a way to figure out if she could.

“I don’t know, Jess. I really don’t.” She told nothing but the truth without revealing her true motive. Confessing what one girlfriend would to another. “There’s something about him. I need to see him.”

The blond searched her face and Lucy let her see all of her very real confusion.

“How do you even know him?” Doubt skittered across her face.

“He broke into my rooms right before the Games.” Lucy felt her cheeks flush at the memory of his searing kiss.

Apparently that was enough for Jess. “How can I help?”

She couldn’t meet him until later, giving her enough time to gather what was needed. Either Jess would rat her out before she could set the plan in motion, or she wouldn’t. Lucy crossed her fingers that her friend remained the hopeless romantic she’d been at sixteen.

“Can you meet me at my room at nightfall?”

Jess offered her a conspiratorial smile. “Are you going to see him? Oh, tell me you’re going to break into the Barracks just to talk to him.”

Yup, there’s the girl she remembered. She missed those innocent days. Before everything changed.

“Shhh,” she laughed, pulling her friend closer. No need to reveal her plans, just in case she did betray her trust. Lucy would get to him tonight whether Jess helped or not. “Rocks for brains might hear you.”

“I’ll be there.” Jess pulled her away from the crowd, back towards the car. “Don’t worry.”


	7. Princess on the Steeple

_xxxxx_  
_MacReynold’s  
_ _xxxxx_

Mac’s held its collective breath. No one moved as Flynn launched himself through the air, finishing his run. Q broke into tears and Win came around the bar to fold herself into his arms. Denise and Mark sat with Rufus and Jiya, staring in disbelief at the televisions, the roar of the arena at odds with the stunned stillness of the gathered patrons, family dinner forgotten.

“Damn fool’s gonna get himself killed.” Karl shoved away from Flynn’s empty spot, weaving his way through the tables of customers. Denise insisted they cook for everyone, but they’d lost their appetites, watching dully as Karl headed towards the door.

Jiya rose to go after him, but Denise stopped her. “He won’t go far.”

“He’s not wrong.” Q and Win joined the group, pulling over a couple of stools. “Karl never got him the phone. How’s he s’posed to get in touch with us if he needs help?”

Win picked at a frayed edge of her Converse. “I hate to say it, Mama B, but Q’s got a point.”

“No. No he doesn’t have a point.” Rufus grabbed Q’s clenched fist, remembering Mason doing the same for him in what felt like another lifetime. “Garcia Flynn is like Loki in the Marvel movies. Every time you think he’s down for the count, he pops up outta nowhere with perfectly timed sass.”

Jiya stood, cleaning the bowls of food from the table and gesturing to the chafing dishes on the fold out tables against the wall.

“I’m gonna box some of this stuff for people to take with them. I don’t think anyone will be sticking around much longer.”

Denise glanced around the room. People finished off their food in quiet murmurs. The Games continued on the television, but no one could watch anymore. She could tell they wanted to retreat to the privacy of their own homes. Hopefully it would be enough for Rittenhouse. No matter how those who resided in the Central Zone enjoyed the blood and the mayhem, those who lived in the outer districts had a very different view of the situation.

“Rufus is right. Flynn is a man of many talents. I have no doubt, right now, he’s figuring out how to beat us back to the bunker after we close for the night.” Denise leveled her best Matriarchal stare, hiding her fear for the man who’d become her brother. “So, how about we clean up this mess and get back to nailing down our plan, so that when Flynn swaggers back in, we can have everything ready for him.”

 _xxxxx_  
_The Citadel_ _  
_ xxxxx

“Pull the files.” Nicholas swiveled around to face the room. “I thought we’d controlled the situation, apparently they are a stubborn lot. Start running a campaign on the Networks, I want them reduced to nothing.”

Emma nodded, pulling her phone from her pocket. “I’ll get with Mason and have something up by tonight.”

“Include Jess on this, I’d like her taking more responsibility.” He turned his attention to Wyatt. “And the Districts? How are they reacting?”

The soldier stepped away from the wall. “Random skirmishes here and there, nothing to concern us yet. We’ll put more security measures in place the closer we get to Saturday. Standard procedure even considering the expected violence.”

“Keep me apprised.” He waved them out, focusing on Carol and Benjamin. “Now, about Lucy.”

Carol leaned forward. “I told you I’d take care of it and I will.”

Her grandfather ignored her. “I allowed you to leave her memories intact because you assured me of the necessity of that allowance. However,” his young handsome visage narrowed in annoyance, “if she cannot be controlled, I will ensure her compliance in any way I must.”

Lucy’s mother gripped the sides of her chair, only just holding herself in place. Benjamin reached over and covered her hand with his.

“There’s no need for threats. We will take care of this.”

“See that you do.”

 _xxxxx_  
_RD3_ _  
_ xxxxx

Flynn limped through his streets doubtful he’d be able to make it back to the bunker. The Barracks loomed in the distance, but he could feel them closing in. If he didn’t get away soon, it’d be too late anyway. The residential area left little in the way of escape, but a couple blocks up, maybe then. He ransacked his brain. They skirted the warehouse district nearest the river, the market lay ahead. If they stayed on Lafayette, he’d eventually reach John & Philly’s garage. He could bandage himself up and hunker down there until nightfall.

Choice made, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He almost gave up when he stumbled against a curb and nearly fell. If he headed back to the Barracks with the rest, he could get medical attention, which he needed considering the wavering of his vision. But he made a promise and intended to see it through.

The group pushed through the intersection, only one more block. Families gathered on the stoops and their heads dipped as he passed them. Flynn wasn’t sure how much they knew, but seeing their small gesture gave him strength. Their clothes dirty, their lives, exhausting, but they stood there to honor a mission they probably didn’t understand. It was for them. For the fallen whose bodies they buried. Their eyes held no acrimony, only resignation edged with hope.

Almost to the market. Three blocks up on the right, where the street narrowed, he’d slip into the alley and come around the garage from the back. The guards would realize he never returned from the Games and start a search for him eventually, but as long as he stayed out of sight until nightfall, he should be fine. Then he’d get answers from Lucy Preston.

If the blood loss didn’t kill him.

Rittenhouse closed the market for the day, so the usually bustling place sat empty. Eerie, like prey fleeing a forest. The opposite of the feeling of walking by the Square full of people watching the Games in front of the Citadel. It held the same silence, but this one heavy with potential. As if the prey knew they were marked for death and decided to fight anyway. They had nothing left to lose. They knew something was coming, could feel it scratching at their shoulder. Nothing’s there. Not yet.

But it lurked, just beyond the shadows.

 _xxxxx_  
_RD3_ _  
_ xxxxx

Karl waited. While he waited, he listed all the ways he knew to slaughter his boss, he deserved it after this ridiculous mission. And if Flynn somehow miraculously lived, he’d employ the first one that came to mind. For now, he checked the side and back alleys on the monitor. He’d told John and Philly to find something else to do for the night so only one person would be showing up on the screen. The picture was grainy, just a black and white security system, but it was one of perks when they went looking for a place for the garage. Access to the salt tunnels that ran below, another.

Flynn lurched into frame, barely upright, and he spun in his chair, jerking into motion. Dying in the alley would draw unwanted attention, plus Karl wouldn’t get the pleasure of killing him then. In the thirty seconds it took for him to get to his boss, the man had collapsed in an undignified heap.

“For fuck’s sake, Flynn.” He knelt down and wrapped his arm around his torso, his boss moaning in unconscious pain. “Well if you’re gonna be a baby about it.”

Karl didn’t give two shits about gentle. Gentle he’d leave to the people who weren’t escaping Caligula’s wet dream. Getting him into the garage proved a little harder than expected what with dead weight and all, but he managed to get him inside and onto the pea green leather couch in what served as the office. He grabbed the medical supplies from the duffle bag he’d brought with him and started cleaning up the worst of the injuries.

Most of the blood came from grazes, but the right calf needed stitches. Flynn’s upper thigh saved only by the thick cargo shorts he wore. Karl tore at the material, cleaned it, and wrapped it with gauze to slow the bleeding then went to work on the calf. He’d stitched up Garcia before, that didn’t concern him. At least there were no bombs this time. What concerned him was the blooming bruise across his torso. He leaned down, listening to his breathing. No gurgling or anything weird, so he probably wasn’t bleeding internally, but what did he know. He’d been planning the man’s death not fifteen minutes ago.

He went to work and the next time he checked the clock on the wall, forty-five minutes passed. Not much time left before the next batch of fighters filed through. Long enough to wrap those ribs. Despite his cavalier attitude, Karl was as gentle as he could be given the circumstances. Nothing felt too broken. Maybe a hairline fracture. It’d hold for now.

 _Sorry, man,_  he thought as he stripped the cargos from Flynn. He could still imagine the look on his face when he came to, bandaged and in his boxers. If Karl’d had a camera he’d set it up for when he came to, just to have video of his reaction. Instead, he draped an drab green military blanket over the sleeping man.

“What do you want me to do? I mean, how can I take your place for the night looking like this?” He asked as he stripped down and pulled the cargo shorts on. “But your ass better be back here before the next game. I ain’t no hero.”

Karl folded his clothes, shoving them in the duffle bag at his feet. He left a clean set next to a note on the desk explaining that if Flynn could be a bullheaded fool, then so could Karl. But that he damn well expected him to rescue his ass before he had to fight in the Arena.

 _xxxxx_  
_The Citadel_ _  
_ xxxxx

Jess burst in the room carrying several garment bags while a young man in the murky grey tunic of the Ascended lugged in a rolling cart full of shoes and accessories.

“We’re going out.” Heaping armfuls of shoe boxes lined her couch. “Thank you Sam.”

“The wind at your back,” he responded, his words as dull as his eyes.

Jess nodded. “The sun on your face.”

“The sun on your face,” Lucy sputtered out, praying it just looked like Jess had taken her by surprise. Every piece of her life looked different now, glared at her through too sharp eyes.

A zipper brought her back to the present. “Jess...what’s going on here?” Lucy eyed the flimsy blue waft of nothing her friend held up, squinting and tilting her head. “I am not wearing that anywhere.”

Jess sighed dramatically. “Well fine. Don’t worry. I’m sure I have a flour sack in here somewhere.”

“Jess. Stop. When I said I needed a distraction,” Lucy waved her hands indicating, well, all of it. “I meant, I need to get out without being seen.”

“But that’s never gonna work, Lucy.” The blond grew serious. “There’s no way you can sneak out. Not now. Maybe before your freakout at the stadium, but now they’re not letting you step foot outside of this building unattended. Besides, the best way to get away with something is to do it bold as brass.”

“So we’re going out?” She wanted to flop down on the couch, but a cascade of shoes would tumble onto the floor.

“We’re going out.”

“But what about Wyatt? There’s no way he’ll just let me slip away.” Maybe the old Wyatt, but not this unknown Wyatt.

“I’ve been distracting that man for years. Trust me, I got this.” Jess withdrew a pair of sleek, tailored burgundy tuxedo pants and a sheer black button-up blouse with a ruffled collar and cuffs.

“I can’t--”

“Yes, yes, I know, I’ve got a camisole in here somewhere.”

“And a jacket.”

She held up a hand before Lucy could launch into a hundred other arguments.

“Yes, and a jacket.”

Lucy gave up her protests and poked through the shoes, pulling out a pair of knee high lace-up boots with a low heel. Stylish, but functional. She might have to run. Jess turned to face her, a pair of black stilettos in her hand. Eyeing the boots in the brunette’s, she sighed dramatically.

“You’ll get me in heels for the ball, I promise.”

There was some side-eye involved, but the blond stuffed the shoes back in the box.

“Promise?”

She chuckled. “I promise. Now tell me where we’re going. And how I’m supposed to slip out without anyone the wiser?”

“There’s a new club not too far away, Gatsby’s.”

Lucy wrinkled her nose at the name. “Is it as pretentious as it sounds?”

“Yes.” Jess shrugged. “But it’s one of those places the rich go to forget. Plausible deniability for you. You want to go dancing. Bonus, your parents think you’re dancing away your cares gets them off your back for a little while at least. We have a few drinks, I drag Wyatt off to the dance floor, and you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. Send me a text in about ten minutes and I’ll say you bundled yourself off in a taxi. Wyatt’ll be too distracted by my feminine wiles to worry for long.”

She started to laugh, but her friend looked tired. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.” She gave her a heavy smile. “You learn to play the game.”

Lucy wanted to ask what she meant by that, but she found herself bustled into the bathroom to get ready. Times like these felt like having a sister. Even though it the whole scene was draped in deceit.

“You know I’m going to the equivalent of a jail, right? I don’t need to smell pretty.” Lucy regretted the lie, but she couldn’t risk her trust yet. For all she knew, Jess could end up in one of those hacks playing to the audience in the Arena. And then where would she be?

“We both know you’re not, but let’s not argue the details. You can’t trust me yet, I get that. There’s so much they’ve kept hidden from you. You’re only now seeing the truth.” She pried the boots from Lucy’s fingers. “Don’t worry. I mean, I know you will, but I’m on your side. I have been the whole time. I’ve just gotten better at hiding.”

 _xxxxx_  
_RD3_ _  
_ xxxxx

Someone had stripped him of his clothing. Flynn sat bolt upright and regretted it, dropping right back down to the couch. He didn’t ache near as much as he should, but that wasn’t saying much. Glancing down, he took in his bandages. _Karl._ He stifled a groan. They really were going to have a talk about his insubordination, but at the moment, he was just grateful to be alive.

Gripping the arm of the couch, he sat up, letting the room stop spinning while he adjusted. Clothes. He pushed himself up enough to grab them off the desk, noticing as he did a note underneath the old cell phone they’d never exchanged in their haste to get Mark out. It could wait until his vision cleared and he turned his interest on fitting his right leg into the jeans. The room steadied enough to add a second leg to the equation.

While staring at his left foot trying to lift it, he saw the duffle bag and the water bottles tucked inside. He gave up the pants and cracked open a bottle of water, gulping it down. Then a second. That helped to clear his head and he got himself together. Jeans. Black t-shirt. Shoving the old cell phone in his back pocket, he scanned the small room. There, hanging on a hook on the back of the door, his leather jacket.

Swiping the note from the desk, along with another bottle of water, he read what he already figured out when he woke up mostly naked. Karl swapped places, buying him time to get out and save Olivia. That brought him back to the present with a ferocity. He dug into the duffle bag, finding a couple granola bars and a handgun. A pair of boots waited for him at the door and he tugged them on. His leather slid over his shoulders like a second skin. Feeling in the pockets, he found an extra roll of gauze and tape; Karl always thought ahead. Poking his head out of the office, he was greeted with darkness. Perfect.

Flynn crossed to the basement door, pulling it open and descending the stairs. He reached out to feel the thick wooden planks of the original wall of the building. Closed his eyes feeling for the scar. There. Up in the corner. He pressed in the release and a door scraped open against the rough stone of the foundation. Easy to miss a door that opened in the corner of the room. He pulled it closed behind him and moved into the labyrinth of the tunnel system.

The dirt floor eventually turned to stone as he entered the smaller salt cave that connected to the drainage system. Looking to the left entrance that would lead him to Bam Bam and he considered making a side trip to check in on how the District fared in his absence. The cool, dry air of the cavern burned his lungs as he inhaled too deeply and he proceeded to the right entrance, leading him towards the center of the city.

He knew the risk, but Lucy’d once come to him for help and he’d turned his back on her. He wouldn’t do it again. If she showed. The twists and turns came easy to him, Flynn preferred moving around underground. Rittenhouse hadn’t discovered the tunnels yet making it far easier to get around. He fisted his hands in his pockets to warm them and found his baseball cap tucked into it.

Trust Karl to remember his hat.

Pulling it low over his eyes, he climbed up the ladder that led to a dead end street a few blocks away from the Square. Once above ground again, he made his way there and then hung back in the darkened fringes, waiting to see if she really meant it when she pleaded with him for the truth or if she sicked her Rittenhouse goons on him.

All of Karl’s hard work fixing him up would be for nought.

 _xxxxx_  
_The Square_ _  
_ xxxxx

Lucy sat on the cold stone bench beneath a tree that offered a bit of concealment, but not much. The Citadel loomed over the space. _Bold as brass._  She forced herself to retrieve her phone and play with it as if she hadn’t a care in the world. That’s what she would’ve done before. She’d probably be planning the next adjustment to the timeline. Oblivious to the damage.

She suspected Garcia Flynn would only confirm what she couldn’t yet admit to herself, but that’s why she brought the evidence that convicted her. It burned a hole in her pocket.

Nine-thirty. The time crept closer to curfew and anxiety crept up her spine. The darkness behind her encroached, urging her legs to run. Back to the safety of the Citadel. To the safety of Rittenhouse. To the comfortable lie. She could alter her life by increments, ensuring they never met. Her parents would approve. They expected nothing less from the favorite daughter.

Before she could give into the desire to flee, Garcia Flynn lowered himself in the space next to her.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Arms folded over his chest, brim of his hat pulled low, she couldn’t see his eyes and it bothered her more than it should.

“I wasn’t either.” The phone twirled in her fingers, a nervous habit. She shoved it in her pocket. “I’m here.”

Of course he said nothing.

“Are you okay?” Her hands continued fidgeting, wanting to skim over his injuries.

He looked everywhere but at her. “I’m not dead.”

“I’m glad.”

“I am too,” he replied, dryly.

She laughed and the sound felt like the first warm day of spring after a winter of discontent.

“Is it true?” Her laughter died as the question fell from her lips.

Flynn shifted in his seat to look at her. Finally. “Is what true?”

“What I saw on the screens?” Michelle’s death replayed, haunting her, as she knew it would in the years to come. He nodded, lips tight. “She was a friend of yours?”

The question hung in the air between them.

“What do you want?”

She turned to face him. “The truth.”

“You saw the truth. What more do you need?” The wind blew her hair across her cheeks and he resisted the urge to tuck the strands behind her ear. Something called to him to protect her. Something more than Sao Paulo.

“I think it’s my fault,” she whispered, her words carried away as soon as she uttered them. “And if it is, I have to fix it.”

Her emotions played over her features: guilt followed by fear that he would judge her, walk away and leave her to that guilt; the confusion fading away the longer he stared at her; her resolution that she would fix it, whatever the cost. And there, at the very end: anger.

“My life is nothing but one long lie. One that I used to cloak myself in ignorance.” She reached into her pocket, hesitating at the thought of this betrayal. If her parents found out, forgetting Garcia Flynn would be the last of her worries. Literally. She withdrew them anyway. “By giving you these, I’m risking more than my life, I’m risking everything that I am. All my memories, flawed as they are. My entire life.”

Lucy placed the folded yellow pages on the bench between their legs. He picked them up, unfolding them and leafing through her handwritten notes.

“Why are you giving these to me?”

“You can buy your freedom with them. Walk straight up to the doors of the Citadel and they’ll give you whatever you want.”

“If they don’t shoot me first.”

“Say the word, I’ll go with you. If what I think is true, let them wipe my memory. I can’t live with myself.”

He refolded the pages and slid them into his jacket. “What do you want?”

“The truth.”

Decision made, he stood, adjusting the ball cap as he offered her his hand. “Come with me.”

She went willingly into the shadows with him, leading her down side streets she’d never enter alone. Down to a dead end alley where he stopped, kneeling down and twisting open a manhole cover.  

“Last chance, Lucy. Leave now and go back to your rooms in the Citadel, live your safe life. I’ll even give you back your notes.”

He went to retrieve them, but she started climbing down the ladder. He followed behind her, replacing the cover. At the bottom of the ladder, he withdrew the gauze.

“I’m going to have to blindfold you.” He nearly smacked himself for being so obviously distracted. “And check you for bugs.”

She nodded her consent, holding open her arms for him. His deft hands searched her without so much as an inappropriate graze, which only served to wind the tension tighter within her. Lucy didn’t put up a fight as he wound the soft fabric around her head. Her vision disappeared, but she didn’t feel the fear she probably should. Satisfied, Flynn wrapped his long fingers around hers, tugging her into motion.

“I won’t let you fall.”

“I’m not worried,” she said and realized she meant it.

He shook his head, knowing she couldn’t see. “You probably should be, Lucy Preston. According to Rittenhouse, I’m not a good man.”

“I don’t believe that.” Not when his palm felt so reassuring in hers.

“You should.” He couldn’t let her get too close, it wouldn’t do either of them any good.

She shrugged and they fell silent winding through the tunnels. Flynn meandered around in circles for an extra half an hour just to be sure there’s no way she could retrace her steps. These tunnels wound underneath most of Detroit, and he controlled all of them. Any underground attack could be thwarted.

More than that, he wanted to trust her. Foolish though it was.

Finally they came up where he’d been only hours before. He settled her on the pea green couch as he rifled through the key cabinet.

“Ever been on a motorcycle before, Lucy Preston?” Flynn taunted over his shoulder.

A thrill wound through her. “I haven’t.”

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, he’d wanted to keep her off kilter, but the excitement in her voice gave him pause.

“It’ll be dangerous,” he warned.

“I’m not scared.” She was, but didn’t care.

Hanging his head, he muttered something about praying for a quick death. Leaving her alone, he went to move the motorcycle to the street since he didn’t want to open the garage doors and draw attention to the closed business. Once he got everything situated, he went back for her. He glanced at the clock. Just enough time to get to the bunker before curfew.

“Last chance, Lucy.”

“You keep saying that. You know, you’re pretty terrible at being a bad guy.” She gave him a cheeky smile and he wished he could see the crinkles around her eyes.

 _This was a really bad idea_.

So instead of scrapping the whole plan, he helped her onto the ‘76 Honda, handing her a helmet as he straddled the bike and her body slid down to press against his. Her lithe arms wrapped around his middle and he winced as she came into contact with his ribs.

“Oh! I’m sorry.”

“Just hold on. I can handle it.” But, honestly, feeling her warm against his back, her thighs spread around his, he wasn’t sure.

The motorcycle rumbled to life and an involuntary shudder rippled through her. Up until this moment, Lucy’s life had been staid, controlled, not a hair out of place, a word misspoken. But as the bike surged to life and she leaned into him, her body in tune with his through the turns, the wind screaming as they raced silent through the city, a woman she’d never known existed broke free from the holdings designed to cage her.

The ride ended far too soon and she was being bundled off the bike into a foul smelling alley, the rot of garbage somewhere nearby.

A woman’s voice broke the steady silence that had enveloped the two of them.

“What in the actual fuck do you think you are doing, Garcia Flynn?” Denise folded her arms over her chest and waited for his explanation. “Please tell me you didn’t kidnap Lucy Preston and bring her to our home.”

“No, of course not. She came willingly.” Flynn stood his ground. “She wants to know the truth and she gave us a way to take her down if she makes one wrong move.”

Passing her Lucy’s notes, the older woman took them as she studied the younger. Lucy tried to look as innocuous as possible, but she knew it was a long shot. So she played her last card.

“I can tell you what they’re--what we’re--planning.”

Flynn hid his shock at that extra tidbit of information.

“It’s not like they don’t already know who we are anyway.” He made his decision standing in the Square. Denise needed to make hers. She scanned the sheets in her hands. “Worse comes to worst, we can always kill her.”

She conceded defeat, Lucy Preston might come in handy as an ally. “I haven’t put the leftovers away from dinner yet. Let me make you two a plate.”  


	8. All of My Tomorrows

“Flynn!” Jiya jumped up, knocking over her chair in her excitement. Halfway to him, she noticed Lucy and burst into laughter. “Well, of course, I should’ve seen this coming.”

Denise filed in behind, heading straight for the take out containers on the counter top. “Get her settled and grab the med kit. We’ll get you fed and cleaned up.”

He waved a hand in her direction, dismissing her mothering. “Karl patched me up good as new.”  

“Good as new. Good as new, he says.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, fine. If you want to die of sepsis. Or gangrene. It’s not like you’re needed around here.”

He had bigger things to worry about. Like the information that Lucy Preston promised them. Untying her hands, he pulled out the chair and helped her sit. “You move…”

“And you’ll kill me, yes yes. I figured that out when you blindfolded me.”

Lucy settled, Flynn turned back to Denise. “I thought you’d be a bit more concerned about the--”

“Why is Lucy Preston sitting in our kitchen?” Rufus joined the group, Mark trailing behind him. “It’s not enough to risk life and limb in the Arena, you have to bring the danger home with you like a stray puppy you picked up in an alley?”

“At least, she doesn’t have mange or rabies.”

“So you think. She’s Rittenhouse, Flynn.” Rufus moved himself in front of Jiya as if the blindfolded brunette sitting hunched over at the table was an active threat. “What were you thinking?”

Jiya skirted out from behind him, heading towards the kitchen to help. “He’s got a good reason.”

Rufus’ jaw dropped open. “And you just, what? Trust that she won’t betray us the first chance she gets?”

“No, of course not. I trust Flynn.” She shrugged, grabbing the plate of warmed food from Denise, and pointed at Flynn. “Now you, sit. You’re going to eat and then you’re going to let Denny take care of you. Got it?”

He attempted not to collapse into the chair in exhaustion and only half succeeded. It felt good to be home, even if Rufus stood there like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing in silent horror.

“Am I the only sane one left in this bunker?”

Mark sat down next to Flynn at the table. “I’m really glad you got out.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry, I…”

“Hey, it’s fine, kiddo. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

“But look at you. You’re all beaten up.”

Flynn played off his injuries. “I've had much worse.”

Mark’s eyes shifted to the linoleum tabletop not convinced by Flynn's excuse, but not arguing. Denise set another plate in front of Lucy and her son, hovering behind him. Jiya filled in the last chair at the table, waiting for the explanation she knew was coming. Rufus just gawked.

“So, yeah. Me sane. You all? Obviously batshit crazy.” He positioned himself as Jiya’s sentinel. “That’s fine. Everything’s fine. We’ll just bring the enemy straight into our secret lair. No biggie.”

Denise adjusted the collar of Mark’s flannel, snickering. “Put him out of his misery while I go get the med kit. Before he truly goes insane.”

Lucy sat, taking everything in. Her vision obscured, the scent of some kind of stew rose up to her and she fumbled about the table for a fork. She’d never expected to be sitting around a kitchen table with a notorious terrorist and his band of time traveling marauders. She didn’t know what she expected. Not this quiet affection and family bickering. Maybe a flurry of bustling soldiers. Garcia Flynn seemed more than capable of leading an army. 

Flynn retrieved the sheets from his coat as Denise returned with supplies and unpacked them on the table on the right. He handed one to each of them. Scraping his plate, he sat back watching Lucy Preston fumble trying to feed herself. Chunks of meat fell off the fork time and again. She tried to stab them instead, the utensil bouncing off the blue metal camping plates.

 _Success!_ he thought as she finally got a piece into her mouth and her features softened at the taste. Once again, he found himself wishing he could see her eyes.

“What am I looking at here?” Jiya peered over the page of Lucy's notes at him. “I mean, I can read what it is, but why is it important? It’s not even the real story.”

Lucy put down the fork, appetite lost. “My notes. I’m the architect of all of it. This whole world. But there’s so much they didn’t tell me. About the Collections. The Cleansing. The pages you hold in your hands were the weak points in time. The idea was to change history slowly, inch by inch, rather than attempting some grandiose plan.”

Rufus narrowed his gaze at her. “You expect us to believe that you just didn’t know what the real plan was? We were on these missions. We never saw you.”

“That was the idea.” Lucy fidgeted, hating that she’d been so blind. “I knew of you, or at least a team working against us, but no one was ever supposed to see me. I went in, made an offer they couldn’t refuse, and walked away. It didn’t take much. Everyone has a pressure point; the circumstances under which they’ll betray their core principles. I believed it a necessary evil.” Guilt churned through her. “I took a chance after meeting Garcia that he’d been connected to that team. I knew I had to do something.”

Rufus glared daggers Lucy couldn’t see, gripping the yellow page in his hand. “This could all be just a pretty lie. A way to gain our trust.”

“It isn’t. If you take those papers to the Citadel, they’ll believe you and you’ll never see me again.”

“So why take the chance?” Denise asked as she motioned that Flynn should get his ass on the table so she could properly clean and dress his wounds. “What do you want from us?”

“The truth,” she said, simply. “I need to know how the story actually ended. Why they were always so secretive when I went on missions. I never noticed it, never thought about it. I was raised not to ask questions. It wasn’t until the Games, and what I’m assuming is your hack, that I even had any idea they'd distorted my plans.”

“But they were your plans in the first place? You admit that?” Rufus gave them all a why haven’t we shoved her back out on the street yet look. “Jesus, Flynn, you’ve done some insane things before, but this just takes the cake, man. Do you remember that week? Every time we came back the world shifted in our absence. Every day, more fires, more chaos, more terror.”

“Of course I remember, Rufus.” Flynn wished Denise would finish up, he felt the itch to move. “I remember it all. The violence. The riots. I remember what it cost you.”

Jiya laid a hand on Rufus’ arm. “We’ve all lost. Let’s not lose sight of that. But we’ve got an opportunity. Lucy here has something to say and if we don’t like it, we bundle her up and drop her on the doorstep of the Citadel. I’m sure her parents would be enormously grateful.”

Rufus sat down at the table across from Lucy Preston. “Alright, start talking. Why in the world should we trust you?”

“Because I can tell you what they’re planning next.”

“Next?” Jiya asked, slipping her hand into Rufus’. They all knew what this fight could cost them. They should’ve known Rittenhouse would never stop fiddling with the timeline. And they didn’t have a Lifeboat this time. Though they were working on that.

“Next. We’ve been happy so far with the results of that week. The populace seemed to be adjusting to the changes without too many ripples. The side effects--” Lucy swallowed. “You have to know, I had no idea how bad they were. Isolated incidents. Hiccups, they told me. Nothing to worry about. I believed them because I wanted to believe we could create something good. I wanted to make people happier.”

“Happiness through control,” Rufus scoffed. “Benevolence at its finest.”

Denise pressed a piece of medical tape to Flynn’s back, finishing up. He hopped off the table, pacing.

“While I don’t disagree with the sentiment, our time is limited. She will be missed sooner rather than later. Go on, Lucy.”

Lucy hated that she couldn’t see him, but could almost feel his movement near her. “I was naive. I thought I could save the world some pain. If everyone knew their place, they’d feel more secure. That was my belief anyway.”

“Separate, but equal, how very white of you.” Denise felt bad for the girl, but she stared at the paper on the table in front of her, Lucy's own words a condemnation. “How could anyone think a world without the civil rights movement could in any way be better?”

Lucy had to face down the truth of her actions. Otherwise, she’d never stand a chance of making it right again.

“During the fifties and sixties, America was in flux, a country redefining itself. The civil rights movement. The assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. The counterculture. Protests against the war in Vietnam. Everywhere you look, America is bursting at the seams and it's all thrown together and broiling during a fifteen year period. If we could take that unrest and smooth it out, where could we be as a country by the 21st century? What could we accomplish as a culture?”

“The growth of a nation.” Flynn shook his head, gripping the top of Lucy’s chair instead of comforting her. He reminded himself of his own part in the creation of this world. That he was far from blameless. But he needed to focus, not take Lucy in his arms and promise her they’d fix it all. Together. “You smoothed out the struggle for the heart of this country and that allowed a white supremacist organization to take hold.”

“I didn’t know. I never meant for that to happen. I assumed the timeline would adjust, delaying progress, not derailing it.” Lucy wanted to rip off the blindfold. Wanted them to look in her eyes. To see her truth.

“You never considered that you might break something, did you?” Mark asked quietly. Denise flashed a sad smile at her son, thinking of how the actions of Rittenhouse corrupted his childhood.

Lucy heard the youth in the boy’s voice and it almost shattered her. “I thought I was doing something good. They kept the reality of my actions from me and I admit, like a child, I was comforted by my parent’s lies. Never demanding the truth. It never crossed my mind. I believed them when they told me how successful we were. I stayed for two years, observing the new timeline. When everything appeared to be going well, they suggested I travel abroad. Said I deserved a rest. Gave me an opportunity to research history through the original texts.”

Jiya studied the woman sitting next to her. “No matter what, you’re still responsible for the results.”

“I know that and this is me, trying to make it right.” Her stomach roiled with the weight of her mistakes, but she pushed forward. “They started trusting me more when I returned. They’d revealed the structure of each of the cities, the basics of the district divisions and boundaries, and I didn’t like it, but they convinced me of the necessity. They couldn’t leave me in the dark forever, but they cultivated the information I was given, presenting it in a way that encouraged me to streamline the world; to make things easier. I wanted to believe it. I played right into their hands, I think.”

Denise focused on Lucy, a chill running down her spine. “What do they have planned?”

“We’re going after 9/11.”

The group fell silent. Each of them lost in their own memories of that tragedy. Denise packed away the last of the medical supplies, retrieved her page of Lucy’s notes, and moved to stand behind Mark, placing the paper on the table and wrapping her arms around her son.

She broke the silence. “How?”

“How what?” Lucy asked, confused.

“How can you travel into a timeline where you already exist?”

Flynn wondered that himself, glancing down at the woman sitting in the chair in front of him. She twisted her fingers, knowing how much depended on her answer. This could make or break their trust in her.

She’d come this far. “Connor Mason developed a chip that acts as a kind of universal loophole. Within limits. You can’t actively mess with your own timeline, but you can manipulate it through the actions of other people. We don’t use it much, because the results are far more chaotic than usual and require a subtle precision.”

Denise took the opening and prodded her for more information. Who knew when they’d get the chance again.

“How many chips are there? How many people can travel into their own timelines?” Thus giving them access to far more of history than the team, she added silently.

“Those of us who travel, seven in all,” Lucy answered without hesitation.

“He finished our research.” Rufus scrubbed at his forehead. “I can’t believe it, but he really did it.”

Lucy cocked her head in the direction of his voice and consider all the separate strands of information. His voice sounded familiar, as did one of the others, and she was near certain he was the man from the first video. Rufus was his name, that’s right. But something else about it bugged her. Something connected to Connor and his research.

“You’re Rufus Carlin,” she realized, putting two and two together. “You worked with him at Mason Industries.”

Jiya sat straighter. “How do you know that?”

“Connor speaks about him from time to time.” Lucy recalled the first night she passed by the lab and found the older man drunk and alone. “He misses you.”

“He made his choice.” Rufus closed the conversation.

Flynn brought them back to the task at hand. “So, the next mission. How much time do we have?”

She rubbed her eyes against the gauze, the exhaustion of the day creeping over her. “We’re still planning, but we won’t be able to do anything until after the Games at least.”

“And the plan?” Rufus leaned forward. “What are we up against?”

“We’ve got a sleeper in place with access to the highest levels of government. We’re going to play on the fear of the time. The idea is that if we get the citizens used to boundaries earlier, they’ll be more content to accept them in the future.”

Lucy filled them in and answered as many questions as she could. She didn’t know if they believed her, she thought Garcia did, but something about him compromised her. She couldn’t explain it, but she damn well felt it. In the end, she was tired and still didn’t have any answers. Mostly, she just wanted the blindfold off.

“What really happened?” Lucy turned her face up to Flynn, a steady presence behind her. “Please, I need to know the whole story. The changes I made never should have caused such a dark future. I went for structure, not subjugation.”

Denise stared at Lucy, thinking about how unbearably innocent she’d been. A child playing a game she didn’t fully understand. But she was here now. Willingly. Not even attempting to remove her blindfold despite the fact that her hands were free. The mother in her believed Lucy. Believed she’d been led astray and wanted to make things right.

Denise leaned over her son to reread Lucy’s notes on the mission. “Thurgood Marshall. You offered to save his wife?”

Lucy nodded. “That was his price. He had no idea she was sick until I showed him her medical file explaining she had less than a year to live. All he had to do was agree to step down as lead counsel for Brown v Board and we’d administer the cure. When I left Wyatt and Emma with him, I had his assurance of compliance. But I suspect that’s not where the story ends.”

“No. It’s not.” Denise blinked back angry tears thinking of the loss to history. She caught Flynn’s eye. “Take off the blindfold.”

“Are you sure?” Jiya asked, squeezing Rufus’ hand at his unvoiced objection.

The former agent nodded. “What do you think, Flynn? You’ve already taken steps to ensure she can’t lead them back to us. I think she should have to face the truth with her eyes open.”

“I trust her,” he said simply. She could’ve tried to run, she didn’t. She came to him with information they could use in their fight against Rittenhouse. “ Lucy Preston might not have been our first choice, but she’s the person the universe saw fit to send us.”

Denise tightened her fingers on Mark’s shoulders and he reached up to reassure her. “I trust Garcia and he trusts Lucy. We’re good, Mom.”

She squeezed his fingers thinking he’d grown up so much in his time away. Denise looked to Jiya and Rufus, who shared a long unspoken exchange before they came to a decision.

Rufus leveled a heavy glare Lucy couldn’t see yet. “Alright, listen up, if anything happens to any of us, I will make it my very last mission on earth to make you regret the day you crossed paths with us. Agreed?”

“As I stated earlier, I knew the risks when I came to you. I need the truth. I can’t trust my family, so that leaves me trusting you. My life’s in your hands. Trust me or not. But take off the damn blindfold. Please,” she added, remembering her manners.

Without further discussion, Flynn unwound the fabric and revealed the bunker and his family to her.

Her eyes adjusted to the light and she recognized Rufus and Denise from the monitors in the Arena. Guilt surfaced again, threatening to drag her under. But this was her atonement. Staring into the faces of those she wronged, however inadvertently.

“What happened to Thurgood Marshall?” She directed her question to Denise.  

Her answer left no room for misinterpretation. Too many people had lied to this girl already. Lucy could be a great asset for them since she had access to Rittenhouse’s inner circle. But it began with the truth.

“The redhead shot him and left him to bleed out in the middle of a park in broad daylight.”

Lucy would cry in the dark of her room tonight, but right now she turned to Rufus and the woman next to him.

“Emma,” she answered by way of explanation before continuing. “Rosa Parks? John Lennon?”

“They’re both dead.” Jiya leaned forward and offered the brunette her hand. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear. I’m Jiya, by the way. You probably recognize Rufus and Denise.”

“I do. I’m Lucy.” She introduced herself, specifically not asking about the boy who was obviously Denise’s son when they shared a look. “And that may not be what I wanted to hear, but it’s our reality. I didn’t know what to believe anymore, there's been so many lies. Thank you.”

Flynn moved from behind her, seeing her eyes for the first time since the conversation in the Square when he decided to throw caution to the wind and trust the universe. He didn’t claim to understand it, but watching as Lucy stared at him, her expression open, hiding nothing, he couldn’t deny it anymore. Something brought them both to Detroit. He learned the hard way what happened when he turned away from his destiny. No way he’d do it a second time.

“Welcome to the team, Lucy Preston.”

He and Lucy didn’t stay long after that. The team needed to be ready to move on Olivia’s rescue and he needed time to familiarize himself with the plan. As much as he trusted their new ally, it’d be smart to keep her at arm’s length. If she proved herself, they could consider bringing her in further, but until then, he wouldn’t risk Denise’s daughter. Destiny or no.

The ride back to the garage was more agonizing the second time around. He’d replaced the blindfold for the trip back, but this time when she leaned into him, her entire body relaxed as if she’d finally found safe harbor. As if she didn’t need sight to know he’d keep her safe.

Nothing, not even the stench of the sewers and the grimy alleys they traveled through on their trip back, could change the way her hand felt in his. For the first time since he lost his family, the weight on his heart lessened and he breathed a little easier.

They stopped in the shadow of a large oak tree on the edge of the Square and unwound the blindfold one last time.

She blinked up at him. “You understand that I need to make this right, don’t you?” After the closeness on their ride, the space between felt immense. Lucy fought against the urge to tuck herself into his body, missing his warmth.

“I do. I only hope my faith in you isn’t misplaced.”

He wanted to say more, but what? Flynn doubted she could explain the connection between them any better than he could. He’d barely cobbled together a working rationalization beyond the idea that the woman in Sao Paulo was a future version of the woman standing in front of him. Still, small differences gave him pause.

“It isn’t.”

They stood, inches away from the other. Both wanting to reach out, both hesitating. Unsure of the ground with this tentative partnership.

“I’ll find a way to contact you if I survive the Games.”

The idea of a world without him stole her breath and she closed the distance. She didn’t care if she could explain it. If the worst happened, this could be her last chance. Her arms encircled his waist, her head pressed to his chest.

“You’re already free. Why do you have to go back?”

Flynn threaded his fingers through her hair. There’s no way he’d trust her with the entire plan, but he found he wanted to answer this question, to tell her a bit of his own truth.

“Ever since the murder of my family, I’ve been on the run. Rittenhouse forced me to leave that life behind. To leave my wife and child behind. They stole everything I’d ever been. Father. Husband. Friend. The people of my district do not know me by name. You could ask a hundred of them and come away with nothing but aliases. I haven’t been Garcia Flynn to anyone beyond my inner circle in four years. I want the right to claim my history.”

Lucy tilted her chin up, wanting that for him. But more than that. “Maybe one day we can save them. If we ever make things right again. I’d like to help you do that.”

For the first time since they lost the Lifeboat, hope crept in. If the woman in his arms proved honest, they might just stand a chance.  They’d tangled this world up in the first place, they could patch it back together. This time when he leaned down to kiss her, he waited, wanting her to choose this. They had this intermission of peace and it could be their last.

Her lips met his, welcoming this intimacy. The slip of his tongue darting between her lips. Coaxing her to open to him. She melted into the silk of his kiss, offering a future they both knew could slip away tomorrow. But for now, in the shield of his arms, she felt real. Grounded in the space that only existed between them.

Too soon they pulled away, knowing they’d spent too long already.

“Be safe,” Flynn ran a thumb down her jawline, memorizing her face for the coming days. “I still intend to dance with you at the ball.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

_xxxxx_

Lucy approached the doors of the Citadel with far more confidence than she actually felt. Nothing prevented her from stepping out at night, even if her parents believed otherwise. She nodded to the night guard and strode to the elevator. When the bell dinged, she flinched, the sound too loud. Her breath normalized with every passing floor and she allowed herself to imagine closing the door to her rooms and collapsing on the plush grey couch.

She removed the pass card from her pocket and slipped into the dim light of the silent space. Turning, she placed her palms on the back of the door and toed her shoes off.

“Jessica and Wyatt returned an hour ago.”

Her mother’s voice sent chills through her. “I needed air.”

“So she said.”

She found her mother waiting in the leather armchair and Lucy settled onto the couch across from her. Maybe if she played passive her mother would leave her with a lecture and a disapproving look.

“I apologize, Mother." She tucked her legs under her and grabbed the afghan from the back of the couch. "It won’t happen again.”

Carol leaned forward. “Lucy Preston, your behavior lately has not been what we expect from a Preston. Certainly not one in line to run the family. You don’t want to know the solution Nicholas suggested.”

Lucy’d had enough. Enough of the lies. Enough of the manipulation. She wanted a mother who’d lie in wait to scold her for staying out on a school night. Not, whatever Carol passed off as mothering. She flashed back to Denise behind her son, a fierce mother daring her to cross the line, promising she wouldn’t like the results.

“He threatened to change my history? To make me more compliant?” She tossed the blanket back and got up, moving to the kitchen to start a kettle for tea. “How does that work? I gave Rittenhouse the means to create this world. So when do you go back and make the change?”

Carol followed behind her daughter. “You don’t think we keep archives of all the changes? You don’t think we can’t arrange for the information to wind up in more pliable hands?”

“Possible, I’ll give you. I have no doubt there’s a way it can be done. But we both know it’d get messy.” Lucy reached up, pulling the tea from the cupboard. Where this bravado was coming from, she had no idea, but she’d take it. Mostly because, she had no doubt that Nicholas would erase her from time if he had to. “And if there’s one thing Nicholas hates, it’s messes.”

Her mother gripped her shoulders and spun her around. Something like actual fear flickered in her eyes. “Stop this foolishness, Lucy. Your father and I can only protect you so far. You have no idea what you’re messing with.”

Lucy tugged her body out of her mother’s hands. “And who’s fault is that? You had until the moment those videos started rolling in the Arena to tell me the truth.”

“I concede that some of the blame can be placed on us. We never should have sheltered you as we did. Fine. You want the knowledge of an equal, you will act like an equal. This obsession with Garcia Flynn stops now. You will behave as the heir apparent with all the expected demeanor. No more behavior like what happened during the Games earlier today.”

The whistle of the kettle and Lucy flinched. Carol smiled and turned off the burner on the stove. Taking the tea from the counter, she chose a mug and fixed her daughter a cup.

“Am I understood?” she asked, stirring a single spoon of sugar into the tea and handing it to Lucy.

She never thought she’d fear her mother, but as the older woman placed the spoon in the sink, waiting for her answer, she wondered if she really knew the woman at all.

Yes, Mother.”

She could play along. Let them all think they’d won. Lucy had Garcia Flynn. Together they would fix this. That thought alone gave her the strength to proceed as planned.


	9. For Your Ribbons and Bows

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ The Bunker _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

“Does everybody have the plan down?” Flynn looked around the room, his ribs still aching, but better for Denise’s care. “Q?” 

“Me and Rufus head to the salt mines to relieve Bam Bam and man the radio. If anything comes across the wires, I text you and then book it to meet you guys in the sewers southwest of Central D, Fort St. and Grand.”

Flynn leaned against the couch, crossing his arms. “Otherwise?” 

“I’m to stay below the radar.” Q huffed out an annoyed breath. “I don’t see why I need to stay hidden.” 

He crossed to sit at the kitchen table with the kid. “You’re the one who knows the tunnels better than anyone. I need you to be able to move around freely.” 

“Alright, man. I guess.” Q folded his arms over his chest, but Flynn had no doubt he’d stick to the plan. He wasn’t trying to protect the boy, although that instinct burned inside him. 

“Good.” He stood and looked to Denise. “You and Mason hang here, keep an eye on the streets. Touch base if need be, but otherwise maintain radio silence. Mark, you and Jiya are with me. Win'll go ahead to make sure the coast is clear and we’ll meet her under the 75 overpass.” 

Jiya bent over the map of Detroit spread out on the coffee table. “We head to the Square if we get trapped. There’ll be enough of a lingering morning market crowd, we’ll be able to blend in. From there you take Olivia and head back underground as soon as possible.”

“Sounds good.” He glanced down at his watch. “There’s forty-five minutes until I want to be on the move. Mark said they parade the girls around the block every day at eight-thirty. By quarter til they’ve arrived at Clark Park for the Morning Ritual. We’ll grab her on the way back. Win, you and Q go and get Mac’s ready to open. Keep the blinds drawn, it’s early. No need to draw attention. But get it ready so we can open as usual at ten. Any questions?”

Flynn looked at each of them in turn, giving them a chance to back out before it got dangerous. He was committed, he’d promised Denise they’d find her kids what seems like a lifetime ago. The time had come to make good. 

Jiya pushed off the table. “We make it back here and go on about our lives as if nothing’s changed.” She stopped and faced Mark and Denise. “You two will have to lay low for awhile. Until things calm down at least. It won’t be long before they figure out it’s all connected to you.” 

“Whatever it takes.” She squeezed her son’s shoulder. “We’ll get Olivia back and we’ll run into the Badlands, all the way to Chicago, if we have to.”

His still smaller hand covered hers. “It won’t come to that, Mom. We’ve still got work to do here.” 

She beamed down at him, tugging him into the crook of her arm, proud of the young man he was growing into despite the losses he suffered. It could’ve made him brittle, all flint edged and sparking. But not Mark, no, his inner core of right and wrong hadn’t abandoned him.

“Alright then, kiddo. Go and bring your sister home.” 

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ The Citadel _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

Lucy woke from a fitful sleep, chased by the shade of her mother stalking in the jagged shadows. Flynn’s hand, her only anchor to the world. The ceiling mocked her, flickering through conflicting images of her family’s history. Truth and lie tumbling together, obscuring the way forward. She threw back the covers and trudged to the closet, choosing a suit in the perfect shade of bland. 

Fifty-three minutes later, she rinsed her coffee mug and slipped on her beige pumps, readying herself to face Nicholas and her parents. No doubt, they’d all be waiting for her. Her notes on the 9/11 mission went into her soft-sided leather satchel, a leftover from her undergrad days when she really believed she’d pursue that job at Oberlin. 

That world seemed a distant yesterday. A time when life seemed as simple as which library to visit next. Which relic to examine and compare to which historical text. Another cappuccino in another ancient city while her family ran rampant. 

Lucy started fixing that today and that meant she needed to pull herself together. Convincing Nicholas of her loyalty to Team Rittenhouse would take work. Flying under the radar required her to appear dutifully tamed, they’d expect her to cower in fear of the damage they could do to her life. If they went back and forcibly turned her, she’d be no use to the team and she wanted Garcia to know she meant it when she chose him against her family. Some risks paled in comparison and she chose to save the world even if it meant sacrificing both her future and her past. 

The elevator descended and she inhaled deeply, preparing to face the threats from the people who claimed to love her. The doors opened onto the reception area and the mousy brunette waved her into Nicholas’ office. 

“They’re waiting for you, Miss Preston. Go right in.” The girl turned back to the computer screen in front of her without another thought. 

Lucy strode in. “Good morning, Mother. Father. Nicholas.” One foot in front of the other. She could do this. “The wind at your back.” 

“The sun on your face,” the three of them replied in unison from behind the desk. Her mother and father stared at her from their positions behind Nicholas. 

“Take a seat, Lucy.”  Carol gestured to the chair in front of the desk. Lucy reached for the mission folders and her mother stopped her. “The update can wait.” 

“Yes, Mother.” She sat, ankles crossed, awaiting her lecture. 

Nicholas steepled his fingers in front of him, elbows resting on the edge of the desk. He stared, uncaring, Lucy beneath his notice. Yet she knew he took in her demeanor, her posture, the pace of her breathing. None of it escaped his dissection. 

“We have been far more patient with you than I believe is wise.” He narrowed his gaze. “Your mother informed me of your late night extracurricular activities. I know you are aware that this is not befitting your station in this family.” 

“Great Grandfather,” Lucy began. 

He held a hand up, halting her protestations. “Enough. I do not require explanations or excuses. You tread on thin ice, young lady. Nonetheless, your mother has assured me of your obedience going forward.”

She knew better than to argue with him and instead bowed her head in contrition. “Thank you. I will not disappoint you again.” 

“See that you don’t. I do not forgive a second time.” He leaned forward, resting his palms on the desk. “However, I cannot allow such disobedience to go unpunished.” 

Lucy swallowed, her mouth dry. “Of course, whatever you deem acceptable, you may expect my acquiescence.” 

“I will inform you of my decision. Until then, I’d like the update now. Emma will need the details to ready the mission plans.” 

She straightened. “I assumed that I would be in charge of this, like usual.” 

“You assumed wrong. You are to remain behind until no doubt of your loyalty exists.” Nicholas smirked at her, daring her to contradict him. 

Lucy squirmed, hating the idea of remembering a false history. “We agreed on the importance of my remembering the original timeline. That hasn’t changed, has it?” 

“You will be informed when the team returns. You will receive the post-mission briefing with me and that will be enough. This is not up for debate.” 

Her mother looked like she wanted to comment, but held her tongue. Her father simply stared as if her concerns amounted to nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. 

“At least one person needs to remember the original timeline in case anything goes wrong.” Mason had been very adamant about that when they started with the alterations. 

“We are far enough along with this project that it is no longer necessary.” Nicholas raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Unless there’s something you need to tell me?” 

She needed to play it cool. To regain their trust. “No, I just...if anything ever went really wrong, we’d want to get back, wouldn’t we? To try again, I mean?” 

“It is unnecessary,” Nicholas bit out. 

“But--”

Her  father cut her off. “Enough, Lucy.” 

That truly silenced her. Benjamin had the unerring ability to slice right through to the fear inside her, his voice cold, calculating. She knew in those instants that her relation to him meant very little and that he’d sacrifice her without regret. 

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ Clark Park _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

Flynn pulled his Tigers hat low over his eyes and put away the cell phone. Everyone had checked in and Bam Bam would join them shortly. He hovered behind Mark, tucking Denise’s son into the shield of his larger frame. He’d promised the boy he could be there, but he wasn’t willing to let him put himself in harm’s way. That’s why he brought Bam Bam in on this mission. Mark was here strictly for Olivia, who knew how traumatized she’d be, but she’d instinctively trust her brother. Bam Bam was there to get them both away if the shit really hit the fan.

He hunched over, whispering, “Do you see your sister?”

“Not yet.” Mark shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. 

Flynn scanned the park from the relative safety of the treeline. Even so, they couldn’t linger here. Guards surrounded the girls, blocking them off from the gathering crowd. Just beyond the overgrowth of roadside forest that grew up between the park and Lake Huron, the rotting carcass of the empty highway loomed in the distance. Promising a freedom that had long since turned into a taunting fairy tale. The fact that he was trying to rescue a little girl from an evil organization bent on world domination was proof enough. 

When had this become his life? 

“We’re gonna need to skirt the crowd. We can’t stand here during the Ritual without drawing undue attention. You okay?” 

Mark nodded and followed his lead. He stayed to the back corner knowing Jiya covered the other. By now Win should’ve insinuated herself into the group of girls. They had their bases covered. Everything would go as planned. 

“Once it ends, we head back towards the Orphanage, staying on the side of the trees. We’ll be able to keep an eye out for her there.”

The knelt in the damp grass as the monitor came to life. An American flag waved as the speakers crackled.  _ The wind at your back. _ __   
  
“The sun on your face,” droned the crowd’s monotone.   
  
__ Peace through obedience.   
We kneel.

Flynn tuned out and watched the guards as they prowled the perimeter. Sloppy, as if only half their minds were on the job at hand. Grunts. Men who wouldn’t fight too hard for one small girl nobody else wanted anyway. They’d grab her and duck into the copse of trees, winding into and through the overgrowth to the sewer entrance underneath the highway.    
  
_ Prosperity through control. _ _   
_ We kneel.

A twinge of guilt surfaced when he considered that he let Lucy believe all of this was her fault. One day he’d tell her about Sao Paulo, but for now, she stayed at arm’s length. Already he’d come dangerously close to losing himself in her arms. 

They’d rescue Olivia and he’d slip back into the Games, saving Karl from an untimely death in whatever nightmare Rittenhouse devised to test them next. He’d survive the coming days, escalating the fight. Now that they knew where to focus their energy, the team could work on the mission and he could stir up the rebellion. By the time everything came together, they’d take on Rittenhouse and bring them down once and for all. 

They’d set this world right.

_ Everything in its time; _ __   
_ For the good of humanity, the few must rise. _ __   
We submit to the will of Rittenhouse.

They rose, ready to move, merging into the mass of citizens, Mark close on his heels. Flynn tugged the boy off the path, slowing their pace to allow the girls time to catch up. He scoured the dense river of people as they passed, searching for Jiya. Once he found her, he breathed easier. 

Bam Bam peeled off and joined Jiya on the other side of the column of people. Still no sign of Win, but there was a reason they’d sent her in. Her small frame and youthful appearance allowed her to blend in. Even if he didn’t see her, Flynn knew she was in the thick of it, maneuvering Olivia to the back of the group, making it easy for Mark and Win to peel her away when the time came. 

Soon enough. They waited, inching closer to the point of no return. Mark twitched, anxious to rescue his sister. Flynn laid a hand on his shoulder, reminding him to breathe. He felt the boy tense and tightened his grip to keep him from rushing in without sticking to the plan.

“There she is,” he hissed, trying to shrug off the larger man. 

“Just wait, Win will get her to the rendezvous. The timing must be perfect.”

Mark forced himself to relax. “I’m good. I’m good,” he replied, shaking off Flynn’s hand. “Let’s do this.” 

He locked eyes with Bam Bam, who gave half a nod before his head whipped to Jiya. The phone buzzed in Flynn’s pocket and adrenaline surged through his body. Something had gone wrong. Withdrawing the cell, Mark curved into place, ready to collect his sister and run. He let him go, knowing they couldn’t risk this chance. His blood ran ice cold as he read the text from Denise. 

_ They’ve got Win on camera. GET OUT. NOW. _

Another from Q came in right behind. 

_ THEY KNOW ABOUT WIN. GET OUT! _

Before Flynn could act, Jiya noticed two guards paying particular attention to Win and she jumped into action. As Bam Bam turned his back to the last of the girls and the stragglers to say something to her, Jiya shoved him into the group, knocking over several people. She launched into a tirade meant to appear as a lovers’ quarrel and as expected the guards turned to watch the argument, giving Mark and Win time to spirit Olivia to safety. 

Flynn covered their retreat and Bam Bam caught his eye again, mouthing the word go, indicating he’d get Jiya out. If they caught Flynn outside of the Barracks, Karl would pay the price. With the briefest acknowledgement, he slipped into the overgrowth, the branches and brambles pulling at his jacket as he pushed through the small opening. When he caught up with the kids, Mark and Olivia were hugging. Win kept an eye out further ahead, giving the two their relative privacy. He wished he could give them more time, but they lacked that luxury. 

“Olivia?” he asked, unsure if she remembered him. 

The little girl looked up from the curve of her big brother’s shoulder, shy, uncertain. “Uncle G?”

“Yeah, Munchkin, it’s me.” She burst into a run, dragging Mark behind her, unwilling to let go of his hand. Only once Flynn knelt down and wrapped his arms around the little girl did she release her death grip on her brother. She sobbed against Flynn. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. We’ve got you.” 

“I thought you forgot about me.” Big brown eyes blinked up at him through spilling tears. 

His heart constricted, thinking about Lorena and Iris, but he only held Olivia tighter. “Never. Your mom and I never stopped looking for you, I promise.” He set her down, wiping the tears from her dirt stained cheeks.. “In fact, your mom is waiting for you right now. Are you ready to go see her?”

As answer, she grabbed her brother’s hand and proceeded further into the tunnel of lush summer foliage. Tiny yellow and purple flowers dotted through on occasion, a dash of color against the deep green that surrounded them. He darted ahead of the group as they neared the break in overgrowth before they slid in behind the overhang of ivy that draped over the side of the highway. 

When he could be assured no one would catch sight of them, he held back the curtain of heart-shaped leaves, waving the kids through to the hidden alcove behind.

Of course, Q met them there. 

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ The Citadel _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

Nicholas zoomed in on the video footage sent to him from the Warehouse District Two. Someone had flagged a brunette teenager slipping into a crowd of orphans, but she was gone before they could detain her for questioning, losing her in in the confusion and chaos when a domestic dispute distracted the guards. It all seemed very convenient, but until they could collect the camera feeds and sift through them, he’d focus on what they could learn. Who was she? Was her sister in one of the houses? A cousin? A best friend?

He messaged security to run her image through facial recognition. They’d have at least one answer soon enough. 

He studied Carol and Benjamin, bent over Lucy’s mission notes. His granddaughter concerned him, her love for her daughter a weakness. If he required an alteration to Lucy’s timeline, he’d look to Benjamin. Carol’s heart, soft, unreliable. She’d sacrifice herself before knowing she’d chosen to do so. No, It was Benjamin that brought Lucy into the fold originally. 

Nicholas pulled up the file containing the master timeline, an accumulation of changes and original history, navigating to Benjamin’s notes from the mission. 

_ March 31, 2003 _ __   
_ PTR _ __   
_ Mission: PD _ _   
_ __ Outcome: CI/S

_ An elder version of Carol Preston approached me at the office shortly before close of business, explaining that the time had come to activate Project Tabula Rasa.  _

_ I introduced myself to my daughter that evening at Stanford Hospital, revealing the truth of her heritage. Carol returned before any deeper explanation could be made, but is aware that her time of hiding is at an end. Rittenhouse allowed them their freedom until such time as they were required to fulfill their familial duties.  _

_ Her mother will see to Lucy’s further education.  _

_ BC _

“Carol, if you would take the mission notes and touch base with Mason, I’d like an update on his progress.” He indicated her dismissal. “Benjamin, if you’d stay, please. I have things I’d like to discuss with you.”

His granddaughter rose. “I’ll ensure that we’re on track for a post-Games launch date.” She gathered the files, slipping them into her briefcase and nodding her goodbye. “Nicholas.”

He turned back to the older man in front of him. “I’d like you to review the Prodigal Daughter mission. All options are back on the table. No matter what, the Rittenhouse bloodline must survive and remain obedient. Is this understood?” 

“Of course, Nicholas.” Benjamin folded his hands over his crossed knees. “Is there a time frame we’d like to work within?”

Nicholas considered. What would work best to keep this timeline on track? “Go back as far as you need to to ensure her compliance. It may be easier to take her in during her youth and remove the mother from the equation altogether. Carol may be the reason for her daughter’s tendency towards rebellion.” 

“I did warn the previous administration about the dangers of permitting her marriage to Henry.” Lucy’s father grimaced at how poorly he had handled that situation. This could be his chance to finally remedy that mistake. “I’ll have all options for you tomorrow morning. Is there anything else?” he asked, anxious to get to work. If he had raised Lucy in the first place they could solidify the timeline. 

“No. That’ll be all. Thank you, Benjamin.” 

 


	10. Sunday Bloody Sunday

_November 4, 2014_ _  
_ _Detroit, MI_

_At nine this morning on the east coast, a series of pipes bombs exploded at segregated polling areas in Boston, New York, Atlanta, and Chicago. A second wave of suicide attacks occurred over the lunch hour, targeting minority polling places in the cities of Dallas, St. Louis, and Detroit. A third wave plunged the west coast into darkness as several EMPs were delivered and detonated with the use of drone technology. As of this broadcast, the death toll remains unknown. Emergency workers race to rescue as many as possible--_

Flynn sipped scalding, burnt coffee as the news anchor swallowed the overwhelming emotion of the day. He’d been on one of the last planes to land on American soil, slipping through customs as the country scrambled to come up with a plan. The journalist blinked away unshed tears behind his simple black glasses.

_President Obama urges calm and reassures the populace that the culprits of these heinous acts will be brought to justice._

_As night falls, the skylines of every major American city are lit by flames. But this country will not succumb to the hatred of those who do not see that our origins are born out of a desire for freedom. Regardless of race. Regardless of gender or socioeconomic status. This country once opened its arms to the entire world, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”_

Scanning the darkened bar, he felt the tension in the crowd despite the urge for calm. These people did not crave peace, they craved vengeance. He knew the feeling, felt its icy fingers wrapped around his soul. He should’ve stayed in Croatia. He watched the skittering eyes of the patrons, wondering what drew him to Detroit. The green, craggy mountains of his home had been a balm to his soul. Still, he boarded the plane, leaving behind the quiet comfort. For what? A country on the verge of breaking?

_Tonight, we grieve, but we cannot allow hatred to take root. We must come together to show these cowards that America will not bow to those whose hearts have shriveled in fear._

“Sure as shit,” a man in a battered leather barked at the television, turning a face etched by years of bad luck to Flynn. “Ain’t that right? We’ll find ‘em and we’ll kill ‘em. Whaddya say, friend?”

He knew better than to open his mouth, reaching instead for his wallet and signaling the bartender for his tab. Garcia really didn’t need this right now. He needed to find a place for the night.

“Whaddya say, friend?” the man repeated, spitting out the last word as he inched down the bar.

“Have a good night,” he replied as he rose. Four little words, but it was enough.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here? A bonafide Commie. I fought the Commies once, happy to do it again.”

Flynn threw a twenty on the bar and tucked his wallet back into his pocket. “Don’t want any trouble. I was just leaving.”

A scarred hand latched onto his forearm as he turned to go. “Looks like trouble found you. Maybe you had something to do with that lady who blew herself up on Lafayette?”

The bartender pretended to wipe the bar as he maneuvered himself closer to the shotgun he had hidden behind the ice bin. A few patrons slammed down their beers and joined the man, blocking Flynn’s exit.

“Got a problem, Rod?” A twenty-something crew cut sidled up the older man.

“Nothing I can’t handle myself. You seen one Commie, you seen ‘em all.” Rod finished off his beer, eyeing him over the rim of his glass.

Flynn gripped the man's hand and tugged him off balance. “I made friends with death long ago, friend.” He released his hand and grabbed the older man by the throat. “You don’t want to test me.”

He tossed the man away and he stumbled against a stool, scrabbling for the bar to keep himself upright. Flynn strode over and removed the man’s baseball hat.

“I’ll be needing this,” he said coolly as he tugged the Tigers cap down over his forehead.

“I should’ve known I’d find you on the verge of yet another bar fight.” A woman’s voice cut through the murmuring crowd. “Is it too much to hope you're sober this time?”

It took Flynn a minute to realize she was talking to him, but the first shock washed away in the wake of the second.

“Uncle Garcia?” The room fell silent as the dark-haired woman wound her way through the scattered tables. “You remember me, right? Jiya. Mom sent me to find you.”

Flynn had no idea how she knew him, but there was only one way to find out. And considering it might be the only way to escape the bar without serious injury, he took the risk.

“Little Princess, of course I remember my favorite niece.” He pulled her into a fond hug.

“Come with me if you want to live,” she bit out. Her smaller arm snaked around him, guiding him to the door. She glanced at Rod and Crew Cut. “Iraq. You understand.”

Only when they made it to the alley next to the bar did Flynn pull his weapon on her.

“Alright, talk.”

 _xxxxx_  
_November 4, 2014_  
_PSE_ _  
_ Mission: TM

 _May 17, 1953_ _  
_ _Made contact with Thurgood Marshall and informed him of wife’s cancer. He agreed to step down from Brown v. Board. Promised him the Supreme Court after Vivian’s recovery. Fully cooperative with relocation and reintegration._

 _Sleeper: Dr. Bernard Rathborne -- Activated_ _  
_ _Location: Johns Hopkins_

_LP_

_xxxxx_  
_July 27th, 2018_  
_The Arena_ _  
_ xxxxx

There’d been no time to deal with the Win situation, he needed to meet Karl before he got trapped into competing in Flynn’s place. He trusted Denise to take the necessary precautions against whatever steps Rittenhouse planned next. Jiya kept them all off the grid, as much as possible in this high surveillance society. Hopefully, it would be enough.

For now, he focused on the screens as the woman who saved his ass four years ago commandeered the feed.

Jiya stared directly into the camera, face devoid of make-up, dark hair tossed back carelessly in a messy bun. Every single day of the last four years showed in the lines around her eyes, the dark circles under them. She spoke, simply and with no fanfare.

_Have you ever been hungry? Stomach gnawing on nothing while the world passes by oblivious hungry? Have you ever been cold? Ice screaming through your veins, burrowing into your bones so that you wonder if you only ever dreamt of warmth? Have you ever lived every single day stealing from Peter to pay Paul, wondering when Mary will demand her due?_

_I have._

_I’ve been on the streets of this city. I spent my Days of Necessity creeping through the alleys to feed The Forgotten. Those whose clothes hang off their skeleton frames. Hiding in the shadows, afraid of the light. I heard the cries of the children of The Collected during the Nights of Regret and I quieted their loneliness with stories of a world that no longer exists. A world stolen from us. From all of us._

_And I am not alone._

Jiya never let her gaze wander from the camera so that her eyes bore into every single silent spectator. She transfixed them, her rage burning bright over the stadium, but she offered them no quarter.

_This is for my mother, who died for the color of her skin. But not just for my mother. For every mother that sacrificed herself so that her child might live. For every son, lost in the cogs of the machine chewing up children and spitting out soldiers. For every loved one torn from the arms of a desperate friend._

_You are not alone._

Jiya switched off the feed and the screen went black. If she’d gone live, Rittenhouse must’ve found the first hack, but not the second. Good. She’d assured him that only the best hackers would be able to trace her backdoor feed. They didn’t need it to hold long, but they did need it to hold.

Flynn focused on the Arena as the crowd shook off Jiya’s message with ease. He stood on a very normal football field as the theme from _Sunday Night Football_ blared through the speakers and the crowd roared its approval. Rittenhouse banned the sport three and half years ago declaring it too violent for regular consumption by the masses.

He checked the walls, the astroturf, the ceiling. There seemed to be no hidden catches or weapons or sharpened spikes waiting to descend on the field. They were once again divided into two teams, red and blue, eleven men a piece. They wore no padding, no helmets, just tank tops and long shorts in their team’s color. He had no idea what they had planned, but it wouldn’t be a simple football game. Glancing over the men on the other side of the field, he mentally thanked Denise for wrapping his ribs. They’d started healing, but he didn’t relish taking too many hits if he wanted to survive until the Ball on Saturday night.

One of the referees walked to the middle of the field and beckoned Flynn and another man to meet him.

Pointing at him, the ref said, “Call it in the air.”

The quarter flipped and he did as he was told. “Tails.”

The coin landed. “Tails it is.”

Everything proceeded as usually expected and as Flynn’s team took possession of the ball, he felt his unease grow.

 _xxxxx_  
_November 6th, 2014_  
_The Bunker_ _  
_ xxxxx

“So time travel is real and the unrest of the last few days is a result of Rittenhouse killing Thurgood Marshall in 1953.”

“Yes,” the former agent Denise Christopher replied.

Flynn stared at the supposed time machine in front of him. He couldn’t deny his eyes. Or the unreal feeling the stalked him through the Detroit streets as he followed Jiya back to this hidden bunker. They’d locked him in a room for twenty-four hours before bringing him face to face with The Lifeboat as they called it. The time machine.

“And now you want me to do what? Join your ramshackle team fighting-- _through history_ \--a nebulous evil with their own time machine.”

“Yes,” the one named Rufus shrugged. “We did our research. You’re an ex NSA asset--”

“Who supposedly murdered his wife and child in cold blood,” he helped him finish.

“No, you didn’t. We know that’s a lie.” Denise crossed her arms and added cryptically, “We have a Jiya.”

An alarm sounded, bouncing off the metal walls. The three of them broke into movement.

“November 31st, 1955. Montgomery, Alabama,” Jiya called out.

Rufus jumped on the terminal next to hers. “Montgomery...Montgomery...Montgomery,” he muttered under his breath.

“It’s the day before Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on the bus,” Flynn answered.

Three sets of eyes looked at him, alarmed. Denise sucked in her breath. “If they take out Rosa Parks before the boycott?”

“It would be a massive loss to the civil rights movement.” Rufus said, his fingers stilling on the keyboard.

“Well, Garcia Flynn, looks like you need to make a decision. Sooner rather than later.” Former Agent Christopher squared her shoulders and faced him. “What’s it gonna be? Wanna help us fight to save the world?”

There’s so much he didn’t understand. How Jiya found him, how she knew his name. Why she trusted him. But, at the back of his mind, as he stood at yet another crossroads, he thought of a woman named Lucy Preston who’d come to him on another continent clutching a worn leather journal like it promised salvation. Maybe it had. She’d known about Rittenhouse, had she known what lay in wait for them?

Could he have stopped it from the beginning? Was he already too late?

“I’m going to need my weapon back,” he said by way of answer.

 _xxxxx_  
_November 6, 2014_  
_PSE_ _  
_ Mission: RP

 _November 31, 1955_ _  
_ _Made contact with Rosa Parks. Informed her of a threat against her life that required she and her husband’s immediate relocation. Sleeper will provide adequate employment for both. Successful avoidance of the Bus Boycott._

 _Sleeper: John Conyers --Activated_ _  
_ _Location: Detroit, MI_

_LP_

_xxxxx_  
_July 27th, 2018_  
_The Arena_ _  
_ xxxxx

The game proceeded as normal, as if the last four years never happened. Flynn was bruised, but none too worse for the wear. Most of his fellow competitors were already tired, worn from the first two days of Games. They still had two more to survive.

At the end of the first quarter, the refs pushed both teams into a line. A trumpeting fanfare sounded as a hush fell over the crowd in anxious anticipation. Every face turned towards the top level of the stadium as two doors opened and a platform rolled out, thrusting over the people below. A man and a woman dressed in all white strode from the darkness of the open doors.

The spectators erupted and Flynn watched as Nicholas Keynes and Lucy Preston waved to their adoring masses. If he hadn’t seen the truth in her eyes, tasted it on his lips, he would’ve believed he’d been fooled. But they each played their parts. In that moment, he saw her precarious position in Rittenhouse. One false move and he could lose her. Sharp talons gripped his heart thinking of the possibility.

Nicholas broke through his fear. “Are you enjoying your spectacle?” The people answered in deafening cheers. “But where is the danger that brings redemption?” Their stomping feet shook the ground. “Bring the first two men forward.”

Two men from his red team were dragged from the line. The refs held them in place as Nicholas leaned down and lifted two flags from a table hidden by the wall of the balcony. He held both up and froze, working the crowd into a blind fervor, waiting for the final reveal. Which man deserved life and which death?

 _Choose. Choose. Choose._ The crowd chanted, desperate for death.

Finally he dropped his right arm and the ref behind the man on the right reached around and sliced his neck, arterial blood spraying across the field in front of him. Nicholas brought two more men forward, this time from the blue team, and chose again, leaving another dead body atop the first. And again. And again. Until four men lay lifeless in a lake of blood.

Nicholas and Lucy turned and took their seats, reigning over the entire stadium as the people went mad with bloodlust.

Flynn wanted to vomit as the workers in utilitarian brown dragged away the bodies on white stretchers soon stained red with blood.

The two refs blew the whistles, signaling the beginning of the second quarter.

 _xxxxx_  
_November 6, 2014_  
_The Bunker_ _  
_ xxxxx

They made it back with their lives, but failed Rosa Parks. The news confirmed their worst fears. There’d been another jolt in the timeline.

_Riots erupted today across America in the wake of the Election Day Attacks. No groups have come forward to claim credit, but President Obama reassures a frightened nation that the FBI will have answers in the coming days. Until then, he urges people to stay home while the police get the unrest under control. The violence has been mainly limited to Minority neighborhoods and White citizens are encouraged to avoid these zones if they must venture outside._

_Pockets of those calling themselves the Resistance have been focused mainly on the large urban centers. They believe the government itself is behind these attacks and they are demanding the truth. This rebellion is spreading along with the riots, with protests cropping up in every major city. Tens of thousands gathered in front of the White House early this morning, tying up traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue for most of the day._

No one spoke. What could they say? Even with Flynn, they still lost.

“At least I’m not dead,” Rufus attempted to quip.

Flynn stated the obvious. “We need to get ahead of them.”

“Yes, I know. We’re trying to, but without someone on the inside, the best we can do is follow.” Denise clicked off the television tossing the remote on the coffee table. She scrubbed at her face. “We need to get their ship. If we had both the Lifeboat and the Mothership, we could hide them somewhere in time. We could push them into a volcano for all I care. But Rittenhouse cannot be allowed to continue shaping time according to their patriarchal wet dreams. We’ve been fighting, but we’re not enough.”

“Is it just you three then?”

Jiya nodded. “We stole the Lifeboat a year ago when we figured out the truth about Mason Industries. That it was just a front for Rittenhouse. Agent Christopher found us this bunker and Rufus and I stayed late one night to make some adjustments to the navigation system. We’ve been fighting ever since.”

“We need more than the four of us. And we need a real base of operations. Something on the level that can shield our identities. We’ll all be wanted by Rittenhouse, we need to effectively disappear.” Flynn pushed off the couch and crossed to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “I’ll get to work on it first thing in the morning. We’ll need to survey the neighborhood anyway. Jiya, can I assume you and Rufus are tapped into the cyber network?”

“Since day one, yup. Untraceable. We haven’t succeeded into cracking into Rittenhouse proper, but we’re working on it.” She paused, looking to Rufus and Denise. They both agreed to the unspoken question she posed to them. “We’ve even got an air gapped computer with the original history on lockdown. In case we ever get the Lifeboat back. We’re well prepared, but understaffed.”

“I can work with that.” Flynn sat back down next to Agent Christopher. “And weapons? How are we on weapons if it comes down to that?”

“This bunker was built in the late ‘40s after Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It’s stocked for war.”

 _xxxxx_  
_July 27th, 2018_  
_The Arena_ _  
_ xxxxx

“Halftime.” Nicholas leaned to Lucy. “Your turn.”

“I’m sorry, what do you mean?” She blinked back at him wondering what fresh hell he’d concocted to torment her. “You can’t think I’ll--”

“Choose who lives and dies?” He crossed one leg over the other. “I do. In fact, I expect it.”

The threat hung between them. She didn’t dare glance down at Flynn, lined up on the field beside the other men, covered in the blood of the dead.

Nicholas handed her the flags and stood, reaching out his hand to her. “Your people await you. You must show them cruelty. Show them that you hold the power of life and death over all of them. That they live only at your forbearance. Squash this rebellion before it can grow. Rittenhouse knows best, Lucy. You know that.”

She knew that. She’d been raised to that blind loyalty. Father knows best. Mother knows best. Rittenhouse knows best. She took the flags from his outstretched hand.

“Of course, Nicholas. It is my duty,” she managed to say without screaming in horror.

Nicholas indicated two men and the refs brought them forward. Lucy’s stomach churned, cold sweat slicked down her spine. How could she doom a man to death? For nothing more than the entertainment of the bloodthirsty mob. How could she have ever thought that Rittenhouse had the best interests of society in mind?

She held up two leaden arms. The men on the field stared up at her with a hatred that scorched her despite the distance. She would make this better. She didn’t care what she had to sacrifice. Even her soul.

Four times she chose. And when she finally turned away, four more dead bodies lay discarded on the astroturf.

 _xxxxx_  
_November 8, 2014_  
_PSE_ _  
_ Mission: JL

 _February 9, 1964_ _  
_ _Made contact with John Lennon after The Beatles performance on the Ed Sullivan Show. Introduced him to Yoko Ono and offered him a solo recording contract with full creative control remaining in his hands. He creates what he wants, when he wants, how he wants. He agreed without issue._

 _Sleeper: Yoko Ono -- Activated_ _  
_ _Location: Ed Sullivan Theater/NYC_

_LP_

_xxxxx_  
_November 8th, 2014_  
_The Bunker_ _  
_ xxxxx

Denise stumbled out of the Lifeboat, Jiya and Rufus right behind. “Jiya, get the med kit. Rufus, help me get him to a table. I need to stop the bleeding.”

They half carried him to the nearest kitchen table. Jiya came running back into the room just as they got him situated and Denise went to work, cutting away his shirt to reveal the knife wound to his left shoulder while the younger woman unpacked the supplies and laid them out for her. Rufus took over as Denise’s second set of hands and Jiya made a beeline for the computers, checking for any timeline changes.

“The Beatles broke up after John’s death in 1964. They never went on to write The White Album or Sergeant Pepper’s.” She sucked in a harsh breath, typing furiously. “They took out the counterculture. No Woodstock. No Asbury Park. No Grateful Dead. No women’s movement. No Equal Rights or Civil Rights amendments. What kind of butterfly effect bullshit...”

She jumped up and dashed to the television, flipping it on the news. Needing to know if the world changed again with yet another failure.

_President Obama declared Martial Law late yesterday as the violence spread for a fourth night. The National Guard has been activated and citizens are urged to remain indoors. Minority neighborhoods are burning up on down both coasts and throughout the heartland of America. No one is allowed outside after the 8 pm curfew. Any citizens caught out after this time will be detained and arrested. With maximum force if necessary._

Jiya collapsed onto the couch and watched video of New York City engulfed in flames. Tanks rolled down Fifth Avenue and soldiers patrolled the streets in riot gear, machine guns drawn, tear gas hanging from their belts. The feed switched to Chicago. Dallas. Oklahoma CIty. Denver.

Flynn hung onto life as Denise fought back tears, their failure weighing on her soul.

They patched Flynn up as best they could and transferred him to the couch where she could keep an eye on him. She and Rufus joined Jiya in the living area, staring like zombies as the hours passed, watching the world burn late into the night.

 _xxxxx_  
_July 27th, 2018_  
_The Arena_ _  
_ xxxxx

In the end, the score didn’t matter.

Every man left on the field could barely stand. Flynn’s team technically won, but two more men were pulled from the last line. One from each team this time. Nicholas stood at the edge of the balcony, in his unholy white suit, obscene against the blood soaking into the field.

He felt his rage, a tight ball, held in stasis. Not yet. He’d collect every death and add them to his fury. Nicholas chose another man to fall and Flynn remembered. Even as the ref laid a hand on his shoulder and escorted him forward. He stared up at the despicable man. His death would not come at the whim of Nicholas Keynes. He would not take the coward’s way out. He needed to beat Flynn man to man.

He looked to Lucy, saw the tension in the line of her shoulders as the ref marched him forward. He willed her not to crack. He didn’t believe he’d die today, Jiya never said anything about a stadium, but he might be wrong. So he committed the graceful curves of her, clad head to toe in white, to memory. He felt the heat of the man at his back. Nicholas’ hands raised as two sets of eyes stared down at him.

But he looked only at Lucy. At the sweep of her brunette hair over her bare collarbone. He heard the slide of a knife from its sheath behind him as he remembered kissing her under the cover of darkness. Above him, her hands fidgeted with the folds of her skirt, the only admission of her fear.

Flynn never broke their gaze, even when Nicholas dropped his left hand, sparing his life.

He stayed rooted to the spot until Nicholas and Lucy turned and disappeared back into the darkness. Halfway back to the locker room, two refs grabbed him, one on each arm.

“President Keynes needs to speak to you.”

They dragged him into the showers, scrubbing him clean and redressing him in prison garb. They added restraints for both his hands and feet. Unsurprising. He wouldn’t have done any different.

Nicholas greeted him in the private box above the Arena, now empty of people. He gestured to one of the plush tan chairs in front of him.

“Please sit. Can I offer you some refreshment? I imagine you’re hungry after that display of masculinity.”

“I’ll pass.” Flynn settled into his chair, leaning back as if he hadn’t a concern in the world. “So I’m here for you to offer me a bribe.”

He sipped a martini. “Of course.”

“No deal.” Flynn made to stand.

“You haven’t heard my offer yet.”

“Are you going to leave a horse head on my cot at the prison if I refuse you?” He folded his hands over his lap, the cuffs chafing, though he hid it behind the slight adjustment of the metal against his skin.

“Nothing that gauche.” Nicholas smirked.

Flynn smiled back at him, filled with the cold rage coiled inside him. “Oh, I dunno, I think it made a pretty effective point.”

“Are you likely to be swayed by something like that?” He took another sip.

Flynn let his smile fall away. “Unlikely.”

“How about I offer you something you can’t get anywhere else?”

“Riches? Women? A company jet?”

Nicholas laughed. “I’m not that much of a fool.”

“So what then? What could you possibly offer me?”

Another sip. “Lorena and Iris. I ordered the hit on them. I miscalculated. I thought it would break you, I was wrong. You’re stronger than I gave you credit for. I could use a man like you on my payroll.”

His mouth went dry and his heart stuttered in his chest. He could have his family back. Could feel his wife and daughter safe in his arms. They’d be safe forever if he made this deal. He couldn’t deny the attraction of it. He knew he’d do just about anything to change the events of that night.

_Everyone has a pressure point._

Flynn remembered Lucy’s words as she sat at the table in the bunker confessing her sins. He could sacrifice the world to regain his. But how could he look at Iris afterwards? What would Lorena think? Could he betray the tentative trust Lucy placed in him over the last few days?

Back right after it happened, he thought he’d burn down the world to get them back.

“No.”

Nicholas looked surprised. He’d honestly believed Flynn would join Rittenhouse to bring back his wife and child.

“Are you sure?” He finished off his martini, discarding the glass on the side table. “I won’t make the offer again.”

“Even if you made it every day until the end of eternity, my answer would be the same.” Flynn rose. “I’m a good man and will remain so. I will never allow you to corrupt me.”

“So be it. Take him away.” The refs grabbed his arms again at Nicholas’ command. “He’ll be dead in days anyway.”

 _xxxxx_  
_November 9th, 2014_  
_The Bunker_ _  
_ xxxxx

The team gathered around the kitchen table, hunched over bowls of cereal and the last of the coffee.

Jiya looked up from her _Lucky Charms._ “We got spare food to as many people as possible before the curfew went into effect. We’ll have to put together some kind of system to keep them supplied if this persists.”

Rufus nodded dully, poking at a floating marshmallow. “I’ll get a map of the neighborhood, divide it into sections.”

“Sounds good.” Only Denise feigned cheerfulness. “How’s the shoulder, Flynn?”

“Nothing to worry about.” Even as he said it, he couldn’t hide a wince of pain. “Has anyone turned on the news yet?”

Denise answered as she started to clear the breakfast dishes. “I did. The protests are gone, but the violence seems more desperate, feral almost. It feels like society’s about to crack.”

Flynn joined her at the kitchen sink. “I guess we should invest in super glue.”

Rufus and Jiya brought their dishes over and Denise washed as Flynn dried. It felt very domestic. Normal. They needed this.

She handed him a spoon. “Michelle does this with me at home. We should make the kids, but we like the time together.”

“Your wife?” He dried the utensil, and set it aside, holding out his good right hand.

“Yes. We have two children: Mark and Olivia.” She handed him another dish. “I miss them. They're with my mother, but I'm worried about them.”

He held the metal camping bowl as still as possible with his bad arm. “We’ll make sure they’re safe as soon as we can.”

She switched off the water and took the towel from him, hanging it on the handle below the sink.

Before she could say anything else the sound of the alarm ripped through the bunker, slicing through the peaceful morning.

Jiya and Rufus ran for the computers despite their exhaustion, the alarm clanging over their heavy footsteps.

“Where’d they jump to?” Denise asked as she headed for the Lifeboat.

“October 9th, 1972.”


	11. The Line It Is Drawn

_October 9, 1972_ _  
_ _Washington, DC_

Smoke ringed the head of the dark haired man, yellowing the air around the desk lamp. The clicking of his typewriter the only sound beyond his partner’s shuffling papers and occasional scribbling in the margins of a yellow legal pad.

He mumbled as he typed, “...hundreds of thousands of dollars...an extensive undercover campaign...discrediting individual Democratic…”

“We’re really doing this,”  the tall, lean blond looked up from his notes. “Once this goes to print--”

Outside the apartment, a garbage can scraped against the concrete and tipped over. The journalist set aside his pile of papers and skirted the edge of the room to peer out the curtains, but couldn’t make out any details in the murky light that filtered in from further up the street. A shadow dodged around the rolling metal cylinder and disappeared around the corner.

Turning, he grabbed his hat and jacket from the back of the kitchen chair and gun off the table, making a beeline for the front door. The clacking of the typewriter stopped.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The shorter man stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and shoved away from the desk, jumping in front of his friend. “You can’t go out there. We have to finish this.”

He shoved his arms in the sleeves of the suit jacket. “This is too important, keep writing. I’m gonna chase down our spy and see if I can shake loose some information.”

Bernstein nodded. “Be careful.”

“Keep going.” Woodward slid the chain to the side and turned the lock on the handle. “I’ll be right back. Lock up behind me.”

 _xxxxx_   
_November 4, 2014_   
_Detroit, MI_ _  
_ xxxxx

_At nine this morning on the east coast, a series of pipes bombs exploded at segregated polling areas in Boston, New York, Atlanta, and Chicago. A second wave of suicide attacks occurred over the lunch hour, targeting minority polling places in the cities of Dallas, St. Louis, and Detroit. A third wave plunged the west coast into darkness as several EMPs were delivered and detonated with the use of drone technology. As of this broadcast, the death toll remains unknown. Emergency workers race to rescue as many as possible._

_President Obama urges calm and reassures the populace that the culprits of these heinous acts will be brought to justice._

Nicholas turned away from the television at the knock on his office door. “Enter.”

Emma strode in wearing a staid brown suit and a smug smile. “Everything went according to plan.”

Nicholas opened the laptop she set on the desk in front of him. Before powering it on, he glanced up at the redhead standing behind Carol and Benjamin.

“No worries. It’s safe. We disabled and removed any and all wireless access. That laptop contains the last known copy of the original history and all mission notes. That way we can stitch time back together if necessary.”

Nicholas nodded and read through her report. “Thurgood Marshall?”

“I took care of it personally,” Emma assured him.

“Lucy is unaware?” Closing the computer, he handed it back to her. She looked to Carol, indicating her daughter’s ignorance. “Good work. Thank you, Emma. Make sure that gets back into the Mothership immediately and send in Wyatt as you leave.”

She took the suggestion for the command he meant it as. “Yes, Nicholas.”

“Do you really think we should hide this from Lucy?” Carol asked after the redhead left, folding her hands over her crossed legs. “I feel you do her a disservice when you underestimate her ability to face the truth.”

Nicholas offered her condescending grin. “You’re letting the mother in you get in the way. Again.”

Her husband laid a hand over hers, but she pushed forward. “I just think she sees enough of the good we’re trying to accomplish, she’d understand that sacrifices need to be made.”

Her grandfather dropped his friendly facade. “Remember what happened the last time, Carol. That was also a necessary sacrifice.”

Wyatt knocked and entered before she could apologize, but she dropped her head, chagrined. She knew better than to challenge his decision. She couldn’t lose both her daughters. It was bad enough she only remembered one.

“Wyatt. Given the news reports, I presume we are on track?” Nicholas waved him further into the room when he hesitated from the tension between the three.

The soldier stood at attention. “Of course, Nicholas. The little adjustments we made before going ahead full steam weakened history enough to allow the mission to succeed with ease. I have no doubt with each change, we’ll be one step closer to our endgame.”

“This pleases me.” Nicholas leaned back, steepling his fingers and studying the fish tank that ran along the windowless wall. “We’ll need to alert our insider to encourage the administration to dispatch extra police to the suburban areas, but take care to do it quietly.”

“I’ll meet with my contact this afternoon.” Wyatt awaited further orders, knowing they were coming.

Nicholas swiveled around. “Carol. Ben. Check with Lucy and see how she’s coming along with the finishing details for the Parks Mission. We’ll continue our conversation from earlier over supper this evening.”

Lucy’s parents rose and exited, leaving Wyatt alone with the leader of Rittenhouse. The man made him uncomfortable, but his training kept him from giving any indication. His parents taught him to respect Rittenhouse and the military solidified his ability to obey orders.

Besides, the job suited him.

The man across the desk bent forward, bracing his forearms along the edge. “You and Emma got the binder to Benjamin in the past? He has the layout of the steps he needs to take?”

Wyatt blinked, surprised again about how he remembered the previous past, not the altered one. His eyes took in the windowless office.

“You’re sitting in an entirely new office and you have no idea. You can’t imagine the confused stares Emma and I got when we didn’t know how to find your office.”

The image of Emma about to lose her cool amused him, but he shook it off as Nicholas filled him in on the “new” history.

“Until Rittenhouse acquired this building two years ago, it served as the State Archives. After making contact with Connor Mason and steering him to pursue time travel, Benjamin Cahill purchased the building through a series of shell companies.” Nicholas beamed, “And the rest,as they say, is history.”

 _xxxxx_   
_The Citadel_   
_July 28, 2018_ _  
_ xxxxx

They dressed her in white again. Painted her lips pink and draped her in silk. The gown flowed in light gossamer layers that floated behind her as she crossed to the door. The cool air of the room brushed against her bare arms, her sleeves gathered with a simple pearl at her elbow and wrist. Nicholas held open a pale purple cloak, waiting for her to rotate so he could drape it over her shoulders. Turning again to face him, he tied the satin ribbon around her neck.

He lifted the simple gold necklace she wore tucked behind the sheer scooping neckline, tracing his finger over the filigree on the cover before opening the locket.

“Your sister is gone, Lucy. There’s no bringing her back. You know that.” He let the picture lay on his palm, her sister’s smiling face frozen in a sliver of an aborted timeline. She reached for it, his touch tarnishing the memory only she carried. He had information, not emotion. He closed the locket, dangling it above her hand, and locked eyes with her. “Sacrifices.”

Lucy swallowed the bile that threatened. How could she ever have thought Nicholas had anyone’s best interest in mind? He’d change history without blinking, without a guilty thought for the lives left ruined in the wake of his meddling.

“Yes, President Keynes.” She dipped her head in deference, scrambling for a response that wouldn’t arouse his suspicion. “It is only a reminder of a past we left behind for the promise of Utopia.”

Nicholas’ icy smile greeted her when she raised her head again. “People are happier when they know their place.”

“Of course. These are only growing pains.” Lucy took his arm as he led her out the door and to the elevator. “They shall pass.”

He raised an eyebrow, keeping her arm in his. “How are the plans for 9/11 coming along? You are keeping in contact with Emma, I hope.”

Lucy schooled her features, appearing calm despite the churning in her stomach. “Coming along. The Games have slowed down the work, but after the Ball, I’ll have more time to devote to the minutiae.”

“Lovely. I’ll have Emma update me on our time frame.”

She stayed silent even though she wanted to argue again the necessity of her involvement, she didn’t want to arouse his suspicions. The doors of the elevator slid apart revealing two lines of guards, their black suits brash against the stark white and beige of the lobby. They walked through the front doors opening as they exited the Citadel and joined her parents in the long black limo waiting at the curb.

Her unease heightened when her parents greeted her. “The sun on your face.”

“The wind at your back,” she responded, taking the seat between her mother and father. Facing her great grandfather.

 _xxxxx_   
_July 28th, 2018_   
_The Arena_ _  
_ xxxxx

The shuddering of the Arena gripped his bones as the blood boiled inside him. Adrenaline pressed in, knowing tonight could spell the end of his life. Second-guessing his path led him nowhere helpful, so instead, he channeled the tension reverberating with the stomping feet above him into a myopic focus on survival. People depended on him.

Yes, the Resistance would go on if he died, they had his journal, the carefully detailed truth of this world, and all of his notes for the mission. They would move forward with the plan, but he wouldn’t be there to protect them. To stand with them. He thought of Lucy’s face, almost breaking as they waited for Nicholas’ final life and death decision, clinging to her bravery. He couldn’t leave her to fight alone so he swallowed any hesitation, any fear that crept to the surface, focusing on her upturned face as she leaned into his kiss in the shadow of the Citadel. He closed his eyes and remembered the feel of her in his arms. His pulse calmed, breathing shallow, but steady despite his injuries.

He’d survive if only to kiss her one last time.

The guards faced him, within arms’ reach of any of them if he decided to run. As if that would stop him if he wanted to walk away from this. He could grab Lucy. They could run away to the Badlands, learn to live off the land. Shirk their duty and live their happily ever after. It was within his grasp if he wanted to leave the world to burn. Maybe he could avoid Jiya’s vision of his death altogether.

But he’d walked away once before.

It had to be him. All his training, his time in the military. All of it had been leading him to the Resistance. The people living in his district needed to know they weren’t alone. That he and the team were working against Rittenhouse. Working to take them down. For good.

Were they doing the right thing? Stoking rebellion? Encouraging the unrest to keep Rittenhouse moving in a hundred directions while they made a beeline for The Lifeboat? People would die. Would the war be worth it in the end?

He’d never know. He’d give his life for this.  

 _xxxxx_   
_October 9, 1972_   
_Washington, DC_ _  
_ xxxxx

Woodward crept through the alley, staying to the shadowy edges, leading him farther from Bernstein. He second-guessed himself as the man he followed turned the corner. Deep Throat had not contacted him, so he found it unlikely that the person he trailed behind was his contact. But someone wanted to get their attention. As long as Carl still worked on the article, he had time to pursue a lead.

He glanced back at the apartment and made his decision, pursuing the man further on. Carl had the research, he would continue no matter what.

Democracy would always be worth the risk.

_xxxxx_

Bernstein attempted to focus on the article but his mind kept drifting to Woodward. He shouldn’t have let him leave. They needed to stick together, especially now. So close to publication, the dangers closing in, neither of them needed to go running off into the DC night. Lead or no lead.

He’d just decided to chase after Bob like a fool when a knock sounded at the door. Three quick raps and then silence.

Adrenaline flooded his system. Neither of them expected visitors. Not tonight. The paper would call if they needed anything.

“Mr. Bernstein?” A feminine voice called from the hallway. “Mr. Woodward?”

He crept to the peephole, squinting to get a better look at the redhead standing there, tentative fingers wrapping around the handle.

“My name is Emma Whitmore,” the woman gave a quick glance to the man on her left before continuing, “It’s very important I speak with you. ”

“Who’s the muscle?” he called through the flimsy plywood door.

Her gaze darted to the side again and she muttered something to her companion. “As I said, I’m Emma. This is Wyatt. It’s imperative you let us in.”

“You must think me insane.” Bernstein reached for the baseball bat just to the left of the door frame. “State your business and leave.”

The phone rang and he startled, shocked by the brash sound.

“You’re going to want to get that, Mr. Bernstein,” Wyatt suggested.

It rang again and ice crawled up his spine. One step. Two. He crossed the short distance.

Lifting the receiver, he kept an eye on the door and a hand on the bat. “Bernstein.”

“Carl.” Cold sweat broke out over his skin at the voice he knew well. “How are you this evening? I pray I’m not bothering you.”

“John MItchell, I didn’t expect to hear from you. Figured you’d be too busy hiring a lawyer,” he bluffed, squashing his fear. The bat flipped up onto his shoulder as he leaned against the side of the desk. “You’re never a bother. What can I do for you?”

“You’re a smart man, I’m calling to appeal to your sense of patriotic duty. Nixon’s got his hands full with Vietnam,” came his predictable explanation. “The country needs to show a united front to the world. Drop the article.”

“I suppose the President would make it worth my while.” He untangled the length of cord and stepped back to the door, peeking out. Emma and Wyatt waited patient in the hall. “I imagine you already know my response.”

“I won’t make this offer again.” Nixon’s Attorney General warned.

“I don’t imagine you will.” Bernstein stifled a bark of laughter. “If I were you, I’d enjoy my freedom while it lasted.”

Mitchell’s voice turned frosty. “You’re going to do it. Or else.”

“Or else, what? You’ll kill me? As corrupt as you are, you don’t have it in you, John.” Carl gulped and peered at the redhead who stood, patient as molasses.

“Rittenhouse has a very long reach, Carl,” the man oozed out. “I’m sure my compatriots have already introduced themselves.”

“Rittenhouse?” he asked, fishing for more information. He and Woodward had stumbled across the name a couple of times in their research, but otherwise came up empty.

Mitchell dismissed his question with annoying ease. “I’d worry more about the agents outside your door.”  

“He doesn’t look too tough. I’m willing to risk it.” His bravado surfaced again despite his racing pulse. He’d never been a fighter.

“Wyatt’s not the one you need to worry about.” Bernstein overheard the scribbling of a pen and a muffled conversation. “Look, Katie Graham’s gonna get her tit caught in a big fat wringer if that’s published. Last chance. Do everyone a favor and just drop it. No harm, no foul. We’ll even make it worth your while.”

“I have a duty to report the truth to the American people.” He backed up two steps, cradling the receiver between his shoulder and ear and gripping the bat with both hands. He’d go down swinging no matter what.

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

The line went dead.

He let the phone fall, thumping to the hardwood floor. Silence reigned as sweat dripped down his back, wetting his shirt.

“So that’s a no, then?” Emma taunted and her voice echoed in his ears.

Bernstein closed his eyes and prayed for strength. “That’s a no.”

 _xxxxx_   
_November 6, 2014_   
_The Citadel_ _  
_ xxxxx

_Riots erupted today across America in the wake of the Election Day Attacks. No groups have come forward to claim credit, but President Obama reassures a frightened nation that the FBI will have answers in the coming days. Until then, he urges people to stay home while the police get the unrest under control. The violence has been mainly limited to Minority neighborhoods and White citizens are encouraged to avoid these zones if they must venture outside._

_Pockets of those calling themselves the Resistance have been focused mainly on the large urban centers..._

Nicholas turned down the volume on the television and greeted the blond knocking lightly and standing in the cracked open door.

“Jessica, do come in.” Nicholas indicated the leather chair in front of his desk as she placed the laptop from the Mothership in front of him. “The mission went well?”

“Yes, Mr. Keynes,” she answered still intimidated by the man, only just having earned her promotion to time traveler. “After Lucy left to set up the safe house, I administered the poison in Mrs. Parks’ coffee. The authorities assumed a heart attack.”

He cracked open the laptop and she waited while he perused the mission notes. “Nicely done. Wyatt was right to push for your addition to the team. You’re turning out to be a great asset.”

She smiled at his praise. “Thank you, sir.”

“Are there any issues I should know about in regards to your transition? You’re adapting to the traveling? I know it can be quite unsettling.”

“No, Mr. Keynes. Emma and Wyatt have been incredibly helpful.” Jess blushed and hid her face from him. Not that it did any good.

“I have noticed an attraction between the two of you. As long as it doesn’t interfere with the mission, I have no problems with it. However...” Closing the laptop, he pushed it back across the desk to her. “If it becomes a problem, I will have to reconsider this promotion. Remember, he is not there to protect you and neither are you there to protect him. The mission is all that matters.”

She reached for the laptop, gripping it tightly. “Of course, Mr. Keynes. I wouldn’t want to put the plan at risk. Thank you for giving me this opportunity.”

“I appreciate all your hard work. Your solo mission couldn’t have been an easy one, but you survived, proving your strength. I would also like to personally thank you for taking care of that loose end. The journal you retrieved might have been dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“You’re welcome,” Jess replied, burying the tears that surfaced at the thought that she had killed her friend. Granted, a different timeline version of her friend, but guilt ate at her nonetheless. She’d barely been able to look at Lucy since.

“Thank you, Jessica. You may go now.” She clutched the laptop to her chest and rose from the plush chair. “Also, please Inform Wyatt that it’s time for his contact in the administration to push Obama to issue a State of Emergency. Martial Law will follow from there.”

 _xxxxx_   
_July 28th, 2018_   
_Detroit Central District_ _  
_ xxxxx

Carol’s cool, dry hand slipped into her daughter’s. “You look beautiful this evening, darling.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Lucy swallowed, not liking the feeling of being trapped. She watched the lights of the city brighten and dim as they drove. Silence descended over the car and she tried not to fidget from the tendrils of fear winding around her.

On the seat across, Nicholas folded his hands over his knee. “Now, you must know that I cannot let the other night’s behavior go unpunished.”

The metal of the vehicle closed in on her. Heart pounding, Lucy played the part of submissive daughter. Her mother’s fingers tightened on hers.

“Or course, President Keynes. I understand.”

Nicholas nodded to her father who spoke for the first time. “The problem is Garcia Flynn. We know that you are a good girl. You’ve always done as you were told in the past. I hope this will encourage a return to that Lucy Preston.”

“Yes, Father,” she answered, studying the harsh lines of his face as he stared at her, commanding her obedience. “What can I do to earn your forgiveness?”

“If he survives the final Game, it is your duty to ensure he doesn’t survive the Ball.”

“You can’t expect me to kill him?” Lucy’s heart dropped at the thought of Garcia’s death, but pretended nonchalance. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

Nicholas looked away from the window, pinning her with a glare. “Of course not, though that situation will also have to be remedied sooner rather than later.”

Her father’s gaze narrowed at her. “As the Guest of Honor at the Ball, you will be expected to entertain Mr. Flynn, to talk with him, flirt, whatever. In general, make him feel at ease. When the time comes, you will have one dance together. During that dance, you will invite him to join you on the veranda. Wyatt will be in place to take care of the rest.”

“So you see, Lucy,” Nicholas smirked as the car pulled to a stop in front of the Arena, “all you need to do is stand there and look pretty.”  

Rage began to simmer inside her. “And what if he doesn’t want to go with me?”

“You will get him to that veranda. Try and warn him or otherwise thwart the plan and it will be you who pays the price.” The leader of Rittenhouse leaned forward, exiting the car, before turning back to offer her his hand, adding, “And he will still die.”

 _xxxxx_   
_The Arena_ _  
_ xxxxx

Spotlights blinded Flynn as he stepped into the stadium, the Rocky theme blaring at his entrance. The roar of the crowd dulled in his ears, an echoing cavern as he walked towards the cage sitting dead center in the room. Barefoot, clad in nothing but an old pair of jeans, he scanned the space, but saw no sign of where Lucy might be, so he tucked the feeling of her in his arms into his heart and kept moving forward.

As he approached, the scene came into focus, narrowing his vision to the dangling weapons hanging from the black metal grating around a circular white stage maybe fifteen feet in diameter. He studied the paired weapons: two sleek silver metal bats, two katanas in blood red sheathes, two curved sickles glinting in the brightness, sending shards of light over the audience, and two simple black handguns.

Flynn continued forward until he reached the bottom of the stairs where two men waited. They grabbed his arms, restraining him as if he had any choice but to walk up those last five stairs to the killing ground. He didn’t struggle against the hold, knowing without a doubt they’d injure him further before the last Game began.

They marched him up the stairs and he came face to face with the man with the meaty paws sent by Benjamin Cahill to threaten him in the first Game. His opponent’s nose swollen and bandaged, black and yellow ringing his eyes from connecting with Flynn’s forehead. He had wondered what happened to the man. Now he knew.

The Rittenhouse redhead sauntered up the stairs followed by the short-haired blond. Both dressed head to toe in matching dresses, splashes of red dripping down white satin floor length gowns that gathered like puddles of blood around their feet.

Emma, Flynn remembered Lucy calling her, slithered towards him, reaching for his waistband as she approached. She stared him down, unbuttoning his jeans and letting them fall to the floor. Tracing a fingernail down his chest, she licked her lips and circled, admiring his naked body. The man on his left handed her a bottle of baby oil and she returned to stand in front of him, lips curled up in a smirk.

Slipping one blood red nail under the cap to open it, she tilted the bottle, pooling the clear liquid in her palm. Handing it to the guard to hold, she rubbed her hands together. Emma placed her right hand then her left against his chest before drawing them downward, leaving a shiny slick of oil on the surface. Massaging it onto the planes of his stomach, his hips, his inner thighs. He blanked his mind of the sensation arousing him without permission.

The guard handed her back the bottle several times until every inch of his body glistened in the heat of the spotlight. Her hand grazed his ass one last time before she took the guard’s proffered towel, winking at Flynn as she cleaned the oil from her hands. After she finished with the towel, she exchanged it for a pair of white satin gym shorts. Sliding her fingers into the elastic waistband, she knelt down, indicating he should step into the scrap of material. He obeyed and she pulled them up, her breath hot against his legs.

Flynn did not snap her neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line "Katie Graham’s gonna get her tit caught in a big fat wringer if that’s published." is actually a line that John Mitchell threatened Woodward with before he and Bernstein published their article with the Post. I absolutely stole it right from real life history. 
> 
> I highly recommend watching All the President's Men with Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford if you're looking for more information on Watergate. Also, watch The Post if you'd like to know more about Katharine Graham (only the 2nd female newspaper publisher in history) and the publishing of the Pentagon Papers that happened right before the Watergate Scandal. Both are full of fascinating history.


	12. The Curse It Is Cast

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ October 9, 1972 _ __   
_ Washington, DC _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

Blocks behind Woodward, an explosion rocked through the night. He froze in place, his breath stolen, unable to turn and accept the knowledge that Bernstein’s apartment had just been reduced to rubble. He knew it without seeing. When he finally tore his feet from the sidewalk, the sky was lit by flames. Sheer panic propelled him forward. Heart thudding in his chest, lead forgotten, he bolted towards his friend. If there was any chance he survived, Woodward would find him. 

He rounded a corner and ran blindly into a tall man in a long black trench coat. The man stayed upright, but Bob spun off the collision with him, crashing to the ground, going down hard on his hip. 

The stranger reached down a hand. “Bob Woodward?” He swiveled his head to take in the man’s face, scrambling to stand. “Of the Washington Post?” 

“Forgive me. I’m in a rush.” Woodward needed to get out of here. Whoever just blew up half a city block to get to his partner wouldn’t stop there. He started to limp away when the man grabbed his arm. 

“We have to get you out of here. Right now.” 

Bob ripped his limb out of the man’s grasp. “I don’t know who you’re looking for, but I’m not him.”

“We really don’t have time for this.” The other man sighed. “My name is Garcia Flynn and if you don’t come with me now, you’ll be as dead as your friend within fifteen minutes.” 

His stomach sank. If they’d gotten Bernstein, he was the only one left standing in the way of them getting away with all of it. The break-in at the Democratic Headquarters in the Watergate Hotel. The cover-up afterward. All of them would go free. Haldeman, Erlichman, Mitchell, Dean, The President. The corruption would go unpunished, cracking the very foundation of democracy. 

The President cannot be above the law. 

“About damn time, Rufus. What took you so long?” Garcia Flynn asked the man Woodward had been following when he slid to a stop behind him. His head whipped around at the sound of sirens. “Never mind. We need to get out of here.” 

Bob reached to his back, gripping his pistol and holding out a palm against the two men. He needed to get to the Post. He’d rewrite the article, enough of their notes were in the office there. He could still bring them down. He’d do it for Carl.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” 

“I’m afraid you are,” Garcia Flynn replied as he pointed his own sleek pistol at Woodward. 

Rufus scrubbed at his face. “Flynn, we really need to work on your people skills.” He held up both hands and turned to the frightened journalist. “We are on your side. There is a super evil organization out to kill you before you can publish that article. I can’t tell you how important this is, but let’s just say, the fate of humanity kinda depends on you. Okay? So, what do you say, let’s everybody put away our guns and get to the Post before it’s too late.” 

Flynn must’ve seen something in Bob’s eyes because he put away his weapon without snark or argument.  

Woodward scanned his surroundings, he wouldn’t make it far with two of them chasing him. If these men wanted to help him get to the Post alive, Bob would definitely accept. He had little choice left to him anyway. 

“Alright then, let’s go.” 

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ November 8th, 2014 _ __   
_ The Citadel _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

Wyatt zoned out on the tropical fish swimming in lazy circles while listening to the news of the world going exactly as planned. 

_ President Obama declared Martial Law late yesterday as the violence spread for a fourth night. The National Guard has been activated and citizens are urged to remain indoors. Minority neighborhoods are burning up on down both coasts and throughout the heartland of America. No one is allowed outside after the 8 pm curfew. Any citizens caught out after this time will be detained and arrested. With maximum force if necessary.   _

They’d done that, he thought proudly. This network they’d worked so hard on, the strings they’d pulled throughout time. The plan almost complete, one last thread to unravel from history and Rittenhouse would own this world.

He tried not to smile too broadly and failed. 

Nicholas looked up from the laptop. “Succeed tomorrow and all of you are all getting raises.”

“Thank you, Mr. Keynes.” 

He folded the computer shut and leaned back in his chair. “Did you enjoy seeing The Beatles? I’m told they’re quite popular. Carol was ever so devastated when I wouldn’t let her go on the mission.” 

“Not really my bag, but they were fun.” Wyatt chuckled. “Until I left John Lennon bleeding out in an alley. It got messier than I would’ve liked. Who knew that a man who became such a pacifist would put up such a fight?” 

Nicholas raised a brow at that. “You didn’t leave any evidence behind, did you?” 

“Of course not.” Wyatt looked offended. “I’m better than that. I did, however, quite enjoy stabbing Garcia Flynn.” 

Nicholas’ face lit up. “Did you manage to take him out?” 

“Unfortunately, no.” Wyatt grimaced. “But he will be injured going into this next mission.”

“Good.” Nicholas appeared pleased as he grabbed the remote from a drawer and flipped the channel to another news station. “Go check in with the team. Tomorrow is everything we’ve been working towards. It wouldn’t due for it all to fail now.” 

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ July 28th, 2018 _ __   
_ The Arena _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

The two men spent the first fifteen minutes beating each other in a good old fashioned bare knuckle boxing match: uppercut, kidney punch, knee to the ribcage. Both their fists stained with the blood of the other, streaks of red marring the white floor. The second fifteen they spent attempting to pummel each other with metal bats. The oil made it difficult to keep a grip, but they both managed to land a couple blows. More than once the weapons slipped from their hands and Flynn and his tree trunk of an opponent ended up wrestling for the upper hand on a now also slippery stage. 

The audience did as the audience has done, crying for more. Give them the death, the mayhem, the controlled violence of the lower classes on display as both a confirmation and a warning. This is what you might become. 

But for the grace of God, go I. 

They were too busy baying for blood to notice that there had been no hack before this game. The propaganda proceeded as normal, playing over the audience from the screens at either end of the stadium, until the MC, wearing a body mic that projected his voice into the space, explained the rules of this final battle. 

Two men enter. 

One man leaves. 

The sooner you kill the other man, the sooner you get your pardon and we can all get to celebrating this triumph of Rittenhouse. 

They stomped. They cheered. And Flynn and his heavyset partner entertained the masses as if they were monkeys wearing top hats and performing at the zoo. As if it wouldn’t all end tonight with one of them lying dead, forgotten, and nameless on the ground. 

It didn’t matter. Flynn didn’t perform for them. He did it for those forced to watch at the Collection Points, gathered like lambs for the slaughter. 

They’d turn those lambs into wolves. 

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ October 9, 1972 _ __   
_ The Washington Post _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

Fluorescent lights flickered against the staccato of Woodward’s typing. Flynn perched on the desk behind him, gun in hand, ready for whatever came at them next. Agent Christopher and Jiya met them here after they missed getting to Bernstein before Rittenhouse. Denise went straight for the main stairwell and Rufus and Jiya huddled together whispering about something before moving to guard the service stairwell and elevator. 

He knew something was wrong, but if neither of them were talking, it could wait. Probably until a more inconvenient time. But saving the world tended to take precedence. He rotated his left shoulder that had begun to ache from the knife wound during the Lennon mission. 

“How’s it going?” Flynn asked as Woodward rifled through a stack of research. 

The man let the papers fall back and scrubbed at his eyes. “It’d be going a lot better if I didn’t have a man with a gun at my back.” 

“I told you, we’re here to protect you.” 

Bob swiveled around. “So you said. You’ve been remarkably lacking on the details though.”

Garcia didn’t release his hold on the weapon, but he moved to perch on the desk beside him instead of behind him. 

“There’s not much I can tell you that isn’t classified. I can tell you that Rittenhouse is the name of the entity behind all of this. They’re an insidious organization woven throughout the entirety of society. There isn’t a corner of America, and probably the world, that isn’t infected by them.” 

“What do they want?” Woodward fell into journalist mode, asking questions to pry more of the truth loose. 

Flynn stretched his legs in front of him. “Power. Absolute Power.” 

Bob turned back to his typewriter. “Someone learned the wrong lesson from Animal Farm.” 

“You could say that,” he responded, scanning the empty room. Partitions and desks broke up the open space, clustered like islands piled high with trinkets of these people’s lives. A picture of a husband, a child. Standing, broad grin, on top of a mountain. Parasailing against an endless blue sky. Articles, clippings, awards, the detritus of a life they stood to lose even if they didn’t know it. 

This felt like their last chance to stop the world barreling down on the present. 

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ July 28th, 2018 _ __   
_ The Arena _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

Sparks flew where his opponent’s katana clashed against Flynn’s sickle, blocking the strike headed straight for his neck. The shock of the blow vibrated straight into his shoulder, exacerbating the wound sliced across his back. He brought his katana around, aiming for the man’s stomach and managing to drag it’s edge across his side as he twisted away, avoiding the worst of the intended injury. The heavyset man stumbled back before bringing his own sickle to slash at the air in front of Flynn, keeping him at bay while the other man gathered his concentration. 

No one would ring a bell to allow them time to dress their wounds. They’d had two minutes between rounds. Enough to gulp down water and drag their aching bodies into the ring again. 

Sweat blurred Flynn’s vision as he anticipated the man’s next attack. Feet planted, arms open, sickle in his left hand, katana in his right, he knew the burly man was losing steam, his bulk only helpful in the earlier rounds when brute force gained him the advantage. 

Before the man could fully regain his breath, Flynn surged forward, barreling into his torso and using the fact that he was still off kilter to slam him into the metal grating at the other side of the stage. Both of the other man’s weapons clattered to the floor and Flynn used one edge of his sickle to pin him around the neck. He pulled back his katana, going for the stomach again and found his blade stopped by meaty, scarred hands before sinking into flesh. 

“Payback’s a bitch.” 

Sharp pain blinded him as the man’s forehead shattered his nose. Blood sprayed down his chest and it was Flynn’s turn to stumble backwards, his weapons gripped tightly in his hands, knowing if he lost them he wouldn’t stand a chance. He blinked, trying to clear his vision and he felt the slice rip across his left arm then his right thigh. He went down his knees, overwhelmed by the repeated shocks to his system. 

He tried to breathe through the stabbing agony radiating through his entire skull. Bare feet stalked towards him and Flynn lifted his katana to swipe at his approach. The man jumped over the metal and laughed. 

The crowd laughed in response. Screaming for his death played in full technicolor on giant screens. 

The man kicked at his injured shoulder and Flynn landed flat on his back. He stared up at his opponent painted in drying streaks of red and brown standing over him, pumping his fists in the air, gloating in his assumed victory. 

Rage flashed across his vision. Garcia Flynn would not die like this. Not by the hands of man willing to revel in this sick view of the world. While the man crowed in his supposed supremacy, Flynn regained his strength. Summoning every ounce of stubborn willpower he had in him and focused on staying alive. Even if Jiya’s vision didn’t say he died tonight, he knew all too well that history and thus the future, could be rewritten at any time.

The man basked in the approval of the audience and Flynn took his chance, sweeping his legs around, connecting with the other man’s ankles, and bringing him to the floor. He spun around, scrabbling upright and crouched low, launching himself at the prone man before he had a chance to react. He brought his knee down on his windpipe, fist still closed around the handle of the katana, and punched him in the face. Thick fingers grabbed at the wound on his left arm and Flynn dropped the sickle to catch the man’s wrist, snapping it. 

While he held the man in place, waiting for him to stop struggling, the MC sauntered into the center of the ring. 

“Are you not entertained?” the MC taunted, eliciting roars of excitement when he held up the two handguns. 

He turned, taking Flynn’s katana and replacing it with the gun. 

“Kill him and earn your freedom,” the MC’s voice echoed over the gathering that had fallen silent waiting for the final, fatal, blow. He dropped the other weapon just out of reach of the man still pinned on the floor. 

Flynn released the man’s broken wrist and cocked the gun, pressing the barrel to his forehead. Bloodshot eyes stared up at him and his military training battled with disgust at what they’d become under the machinations of Rittenhouse.

“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” the audience began to chant, their combined voices thundering through the stadium, demanding his acquiescence. 

As his vision dimmed from blood loss, he knew he had no real choice. If he refused, he had no doubt they’d execute him instead. He was half dead already. So he let the world fall away until there was nothing left but Flynn and the man beneath him. 

And he pulled the trigger.

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ October 9, 1972 _ __   
_ The Washington Post _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

“They’re here,” Agent Christopher yelled as she slammed through the door on the other side of the room. She smashed the butt of her gun against the handle, breaking it off. “This won’t delay them long.”  

“Shit,” he spat out. He looked to Woodward, frantically typing despite the chaos erupting around him. “How much longer?” 

“A few more minutes.” He picked up the typewriter and huddled beneath the desk.

“We’ll buy you as much time as possible, but be ready to run.” 

Denise joined Flynn and they swept everything off neighboring desks dragging them together to cobble together a barricade. Jiya and Rufus came running at the sound and began erecting their own shield at Flynn and Denise’s back in case Rittenhouse split up and came at them from both sides. 

“If we get penned in,” she whispered to him as they both checked their ammunition.  

“I’m aware,” came his grim acknowledgement. 

Denise motioned Jiya and Rufus to join them. “They’ll be here any second. We hold them off as long as we can, but when that fails, Flynn and I will lay down cover fire while you two get Woodward to safety. We’ll regroup at the Lifeboat and figure out where to go from there.”  

“About that,” Jiya lowered her voice, “Rufus and I think Rittenhouse figured out how to track us.”

Flynn’s eyes widened in alarm. “Fuck.” 

“Exactly,” Jiya replied. “Agent Christopher and I found the Mothership parked two blocks away from us, it’s why we were delayed getting to Bernstein.” 

“Are you sure?” Denise glanced over the makeshift wall at a pounding on the handleless door.

Jiya nodded. “Rufus and I agree that can’t be a coincidence. It’s gotta be new since we’ve never stumbled across the other time machine before. Which means--” 

“We can’t go back to the bunker unless we’re ready to burn the location,” Flynn finished for her. Three quick shots sounded and the door across the room blasted open. “One problem at a time.” 

Woodward paled, but kept writing as Denise and Flynn fired at their pursuers. The redhead and the soldier dropped down behind desks of their own as the guards flanked them, hiding behind columns on either side. Jiya and Rufus rose and shot out the partitions that splintered above their heads, reducing their shield. Denise took advantage to stand and aim at the columns, peppering both the guards with concrete. Flynn followed suit, rising to send three successive bullets at the two people hunkered down. 

“Just give us the journalist, Flynn,” the woman yelled from across the room. Her soldier rose, sending two bullets their way. 

Jiya returned fire. “It’ll be a cold day in hell when that happens,” she said, dropping down as the guards’ bullets whizzed overhead. 

“We’ve gotta go,” Flynn whispered to Woodward who indicated he needed another minute. As he typed, Flynn peered over the partition at the other team. He fired at the two guards when they dove for the desks. Regrouping for some reason. He didn’t want to wait around to find out why. “No more time. JIya, Rufus--” 

Something whooshed and thunked against the desk. Rufus grabbed Woodward, the typewriter dumped on the ground as he was dragged away. A flash bang went off, blinding Agent Christopher and Rufus as they started to run and knocking Jiya and Woodward to the ground. Flynn stumbled, shielding his eyes before firing through the haze of smoke. 

“Get them out of here!” He yelled to Jiya who shoved Denise and Rufus in the direction of the door as Woodward regained his feet.

The other team rose to make their escape, firing back. A bullet grazed his already injured shoulder, spinning him around. Glass shattered against the desk behind him and flames exploded, feeding on the cheap wood. Jiya watched in horror as a second shot hit Woodward square in the chest. The white pages of his article fluttered to the ground as his body dropped. 

She tried to catch the falling pages, but Agent Christopher grabbed her hands. “It’s too late, we have to go.” 

Seeing no other option, the team fled the burning building, down the concrete stairs and out into the clear cool night. Running for the LIfeboat. Unsure of where they were supposed to land, but knowing if they stopped, they’d all die. Rittenhouse wouldn’t be far behind them and they needed all the minutes they could put between them. So they ran through the darkened streets of DC until they found the time machine again. 

Rufus looked to Denise and Flynn. “Where do we go? I need a landing spot.” He started up the Lifeboat, closing the door behind them. 

Flynn wracked his brain, focusing on not passing out. “It’s gotta be close enough to the bunker that we can get there without detection. If we’re above ground too long, they’ll track us.” 

“Wayne State University. There’s a neighborhood right behind it, tucked up against the highway there. Maybe we can cover the Lifeboat and come back for it.” 

Rufus nodded at Denise’s orders and punched in the coordinates. “Here goes nothing. Hold on, there’s no time to finesse the landing.” 

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ July 28th, 2018 _ __   
_ The Arena _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

The crowd watched in awe as chains lowered from the catwalk above and workers in brown uniforms scurried to attach clamps to the top of the cage. 

The cage rose as Lucy floated down onto the stage, her white dress lit by spotlights and glowing. An angel descending from on high. The body of the fallen man already removed, but the blood remained, distorting her reflection as the MC helped her down from the platform. Red seeping into the bottom edges of her dress as she stood facing Garcia Flynn. She cataloged each of his injuries, assuring herself that he wasn’t a mirage. 

From their box at the top of the Arena, the scene that played out below seemed unreal. Waiters in white tuxes passed champagne as she stifled her gasps with every injury Flynn sustained below them. Standing before him now, she wanted to throw herself into his bloody arms. Wanted to scream at him to run. To get as far away from her as possible. If only it meant his survival, but they had attached a mic to her bodice making it impossible to pass him any kind of message. 

Lucy stepped forward trying to convey with a look everything she wanted to say. She stopped a foot in front of him and stuck to the script. 

“Kneel.”

Flynn blinked at her stark and forbidding beauty within arms reach. This was not the woman whose lips opened to his, pliant, searching. This was Lucy Preston, raised in RIttenhouse and architect of the world they now occupied. He searched her face for the woman he remembered, who trusted him to help her save humanity. Her eyes pleaded with him. She was still in there. His Lucy. 

He knelt. 

“By order of President Keynes and the Rittenhouse Family, on this the twenty-eighth day of July, I, Lucy Preston, do offer you a full pardon for all of your previous crimes.” She listed everything they accused him of as the crowd hung on her every word. Breaking. Entering. Murder. Treason. They never broke eye contact. She held out one slender hand, he took it. “Rise and reclaim your name.”

He rose from his knees to his full height, towering over her, keeping her hand in his. If only she could protect him from what lay ahead that night. 

The MC handed him a microphone. His voice boomed over the stadium, the crowd enraptured with him now that he survived, but he spoke only to Lucy. 

“I was a husband. A father. My wife and daughter were murdered by those who run this world, the people who make puppets of all of you. My daughter was five years old when they left her in a puddle of her own blood. Blood as red as the stains on this stage. As red as the stains on all your souls. Her mother dying as she tried to protect her daughter, a hero.” He watched as tears hovered in Lucy’s eyes, saw guards running down every aisle. It was time. “ I stand before you an innocent man and you will remember my name.”

He took a deep breath and saw the barest perceptible nod from Lucy as her lips thinned in determination. She’d play her part and he’d play his. They would stand together. 

“My name is Garcia Flynn.” 

_ xxxxx _ __   
_ November 9th, 2014 _ _   
_ __ xxxxx

The team stumbled out of the Lifeboat, Flynn scanning the area for any sign of the other team. Rufus and Denise moved to try and rip bare bushes from the ground to cover the time machine. 

“It’s no use,” Jiya said, resigned and knowing they were running out of time. “They’re going to find it anyway.” 

“We can’t just leave it for them,” Rufus argued, tearing branches off a squat bush and throwing them at the Lifeboat. Flynn joined him, using his good arm to help. 

Denise sighed and stopped pulling at the roots of a shrub. “Jiya’s right. There’s nothing we can do. We need to get back to the bunker. Flynn’s bleeding again and we’re in no shape to make a stand.” 

“We can’t just…” Rufus gestured to the Lifeboat again. 

Jiya wrapped herself around him. “We have no choice.”

As if on cue, they heard the telltale sound of the Mothership landing within a few blocks. In silent agreement, they all began to run through the empty streets. Fires blazed over the city, smoke lit from the street lamps below, obscuring the night sky. Sirens, the only sound. No one was anywhere. 

Flynn checked his watch. Almost nine at night. People should still be out and about. 

“Where is everybody?” Denise asked, slowing and drawing her weapon. The rest of the team followed suit. 

An announcement filtered to them from a few blocks up in the square in front of the State Archives. They crept to a building that lined the open space and peered around it’s edge to see a silent crowd kneeling in front of a screen attached to the building across from the windowless monolith. 

A news broadcast held everyone’s attention. A lean, dark haired man sat behind The Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. 

“Citizens of America, I, President Nicholas Keyes, sit before you to assure a frightened populace that the Resistance has been subdued. You are safe. The soldiers will remain on the streets indefinitely to ensure that these unfortunate events do not occur again. In the days to come, my administration will be restructuring society so as to bring a permanent peace to these once proud streets. As we have in days gone by, America will stand tall once again.” 

Flynn tore his gaze away from the broadcast to notice the uniformed soldiers lining the sides of the square. The people gathered around them looked tired, dirty, as if they’d been fighting for weeks instead of days. The broadcast ended and they each pulled back, curling into the dark, lost in realization of their failure. 

The crowd passed them, automatons headed back to their homes for the evening. The team blended in with them until Jiya led them underground and back to the bunker where they collapsed into chairs around the kitchen table. 

“Should we turn on the news? Find out what happened?” Rufus asked against his better judgement. 

No one answered for a long time until Flynn lifted his head and faced them. 

“Rittenhouse won.” 

 


	13. Let Them Eat Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vanity Ballroom is actually a real place in Detroit that served as a dance hall that opened in 1929 and boasted such acts as Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Cab Calloway, MC5, and The Stooges. It opened and closed over the decades, but finally closed in 1984 and fell into ruin. I revived it and gave it an open air veranda because it suited me. 
> 
> https://www.historicdetroit.org/buildings/vanity-ballroom

xxxxx  
The Citadel  
xxxxx

Lucy stared into the lighted vanity, dark circles no amount of foundation could cover ringed her eyes. Jess piled her hair high atop her head, a single curl trailing down her neck. She fluttered around, quiet, her touch almost imperceptible. Lucy, numb, lost in the icy aftermath of the Games. The air pressed in as the blonde hung a teardrop shaped ruby to lay nestled in the dip of her throat. 

She only saw blood. Dripping, viscous, puddling around her feet, seeping into the white dress she wore in the Arena. She barely refrained from flinging the necklace to the floor. 

"I'll wear my locket,” she choked out. She despised her family and she despised herself for never questioning any of it, for perpetuating the cycle of Rittenhouse.

They expected her to lure Flynn to his death like a good little soldier. 

Jess called her name three times before she noticed. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“We’re good here,” she said, holding out a pair of black lace opera gloves. 

Lucy stood, slipping one on, catching her reflection in the mirror. The deep burgundy silk gown draped just under her collarbone, the delicate fabric of the dress falling to the floor, a caress of her curves, softening the jagged shards that defined her now. From the simple, silver diadem tucked into her coiffed hair to the tips of her classic black heels, she looked every inch the princess. 

Rittenhouse royalty. Tonight she would play her part to perfection. 

“Thank you, Jess.” Lucy studied her friend, gorgeous in a pale yellow dress the color of the first rays of sunrise, wondering how much she should trust the woman. Yes, they’d known each other for years, but given the recent familial revelations, she couldn’t be sure. 

“Is everything okay?” Jess, acutely aware of Lucy’s inspection, moved into the living room. She settled on the couch, focusing on the straps of her silver heels. 

“Oh, of course, of course. It’s just been a long week," she covered and pulled on the other glove. Jess closed her eyes and a tiny, relieved sigh slipped out. On automatic alert, Lucy asked, “Is there something going on?” 

“No,” Jess rose to gather their wraps for the evening. “Nicholas will be here soon to escort you.” 

“How long have we been friends?” Lucy accepted a lace shawl, arranging it over her shoulders. She didn’t want to suspect Jess, but little choice remained in that department.

“Since high school,” she replied, fidgeting with the pale purple fringe of the wrap that brushed at her elbows.

A gloved hand reached for her. “What’s going on, Jess? You haven’t been able to lie to me since the first time you snuck out of chemistry to make out with Wyatt in the athletic shed.”

“I--” Lucy deserved to know the truth, Jess knew she did, but she couldn’t bear the look of betrayal she’d see on the brunette’s face. Still, she wrestled with the decision, knowing they’d kill her if they found out she’d talked. Jess made her choice and faced her oldest friend. “Your family’s been lying to you.” 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Lucy replied, relief coursing through her at the confession.

“Those hacks are right, this isn’t the world that was supposed to be.” Jess’ words tumbled over each other in her rush. “You’re meant to be fighting against them, but something went wrong. I don’t know exactly what, but I--They were testing me and I--” 

Three quick knocks and the door opened, Nicholas strolling in, noting the tension between them. “Ladies, ladies, you look ever so lovely tonight.” 

Wyatt filed in behind, offering a crooked elbow to a flustered Jess. What had she been about to confess? Lucy schooled her features, calmed her racing heart. Disappointment rippled through her. With each new piece of information, the truth clarified. The more she knew, the smarter she could fight. She set that thought aside, vowing to find her friend later to finish their aborted conversation. Right now, she needed to concentrate on saving Flynn from the assassination order. 

Nicholas guided every step from her rooms to the sleek black limo waiting at the curb of the Citadel. Ushering her into the car, he followed close behind, as if she might bolt at the first opportunity. To be fair, she would have tried if she thought she had any chance of escaping. If it hadn’t meant leaving Flynn alone at the ball, without even a warning. Even without Nicholas’ restraining hand on her bicep, she had nowhere to go. The bunker lay hidden at the end of a maze underneath the city and she couldn’t hope to find it again without Flynn’s help. Not too mention, she had no friends outside of Rittenhouse. 

No, her best bet was to play along, to act like the same old Lucy Preston. Architect of this world, unconcerned by the fires that dotted the neighborhoods, the people who stopped to spit on the car as it passed, the police force beating them back with billy clubs. 

No way out, but further in.

xxxxx  
The Vanity Ballroom  
Entertainment District  
xxxxx

The cavernous space shimmered in shades of red, blue, and gold beaming down from the stained glass inset in the center of the high ceiling and lit from above. Around the sides of the room, candlesticks in bronze holders lined the walls, brightening the ballroom, and accenting the Aztec decor. A sculpted series of gods lined the tops of the walls flickering in shadow and flame. A large mural of the pyramid at Chichen Itza graced the wall behind the stage where an orchestra accompanied the arriving guests. The curved bar on the right, already packed with people. 

The crowd parted for Flynn as he strode towards the rooftop veranda on the other side, followed close behind by his guards for the evening. Rittenhouse wouldn’t let him out of their sight until he had fulfilled his role in this farce. They wanted to parade him around as the success story of the Games, but couldn’t actually expect him to go along with that farce. They must have other plans. 

The guests gave him a wide berth, but more than a few appeared ready to attempt an approach. They whispered in hushed tones that died off as he passed. As if he couldn’t tell, he was the beast they hoped to tame, the lion in the cage on display for all to see. He ignored their sidelong glances and stepped into the roof garden. Tiny white Christmas tree lights covered the manicured pine trees, framing the space and lending it an air of intimacy despite the crumbling city beyond. 

He claimed one of the high-top cafe tables covered in long, dark grey tablecloths and nestled into nooks between the pines, waiting for her. His guards glared off the couples seated at the tables on either side and Flynn stifled a sarcastic remark. If he wanted to escape he would. 

He peered through the opening between the stunted trees and over the edge of the crenelated wall. To the right, a rickety fire escape and a broken streetlight. Cars lined the street on both sides as the Vanity marquee lights on the left bathed the waiting guests in a warm glow, their excited faces showing no concern over the bloodshed they witnessed hours ago. They disgusted him. 

Beyond the lighted facade, the streets teemed with danger. In the shadow of the Arena, the Entertainment District existed as a no man’s land between his district and Warehouse District One. Only the desperate and the brave resided within this sliver of Detroit, but the citizens of the Central District traipsed in, attended their parties, and walked away, unconcerned. Averting their eyes from the hulking shapes that lurked in the gloom hovering just outside the circle of safety.

Flynn shook his head and began to turn back to the festivities when a limousine slowed to a stop at the cordoned off red carpet. A valet rushed to open the back door and Nicholas Keynes stepped out, reaching back to take Lucy’s hand as she exited. 

Her beauty stunned him, formidable and forbidding, but he knew better. He saw the hidden Lucy, the woman she’d been before her parents molded her into their darling daughter. He believed in her and she in him, the truth naked between them as they stood facing each other on that blood-drenched stage. He straightened his tie as she disappeared from sight, knowing it wouldn’t be long now. It’d be the first time they spent with no bars between them, not scuttling through sewers worried about being discovered, without the horror of the Games hanging over them like the sword of Damocles. 

Still under the Family’s watchful eye, but at least they could talk without worry that he would be dragged away, that her parents would find her and force her back to the ivory obelisk. He’d have to be careful, not letting on to his developing feelings. This world was no place to fall in love. Especially when you were the leader of the Resistance and she was the Heir Apparent of Rittenhouse.

xxxxx

Every step forward brought her closer to Flynn, despite the glad-handing and the forced smiles delaying their reunion. She took a dainty sip of the dry martini that made its way to her, despite wanting to down the glass. The burn of the alcohol, a welcome contrast to the insensate haze surrounding her. Mason and Emma joined them. The scientist to accept his expected praise as the mastermind behind the mechanics of the Games, Emma, to scrutinize Lucy’s every move, waiting for one wrong turn.

_“A resounding success.”_

_“Complete magnificence.”_

_“Revolutionary!”_

_“The heart stopping show to end all shows!”_

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, a look of cool detachment on her face.

The words swirled and she nodded at the appropriate times, feigning humility as her parents flanked her, making their way through the lobby and into the bar. Lucy surveyed the mingling crowd, searching for him without success. The Mayor, the Governor, a Hollywood studio executive, they crept nearer and nearer. Her parents took no notice of their roaming hands and leering eyes. Chin up, shoulders out. 

“Smile, Lucy.” Her mother’s command, harsh, disappointment and suspicion warring for supremacy of her face. “These connections are for the good of society. Please. Remember your place.” 

The dutiful daughter complied. “Yes, mother.” 

The time of their entrance to the ballroom arrived. A trumpet fanfare played as the dancers cleared a path for them, falling silent in their wake. Nicholas entered first, followed by Lucy, then Ben and Carol. They made their way to the head of the stage and stepped aside, giving President Keynes the full attention of the room. 

He waxed poetic about the Games, about control disguised as progress. They applauded the genius, the absolute understanding of the needs of the masses. The altruism of a family who’d given so much to the citizens they meant to rule. 

“Eat, drink, and be merry.” Nicholas raised his glass, toasted by his beautiful supplicants.

A rotund man in a slate grey tailored suit approached. “President Keynes, it’s so good to see you again, my friend.” 

“And you, Peter.” Nicholas gripped the man’s hand. “Tell me, how are Eleanor and the children? Is Katie keeping up with her violin lessons?” 

“That she is, that she is. I swear, and I’m not just saying this because I’m her father, but I swear we’ve got a prodigy in our family.” 

“Of that I have no doubt.” Nicholas’ smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Now, tell me, to what do we owe the honor of the presence of the Senator from Minnesota?” 

Lucy laid on hand on his arm, anxious to find Flynn, to save him. “I really should attend to my duties.” 

He dismissed her, indicating for Wyatt and Jess to keep her company. She dipped her head in respect before venturing into the glittering throng. Carol and Ben’s eyes followed as she melted into the crowd, every tall, dark-haired man drawing her attention. The blonde slipped a hand into Lucy’s, a light squeeze reassuring as she made polite conversation with those who stopped to speak with her. She finished her martini as a young woman with sandy blond hair wearing a prim, green gown grabbed her arm as she passed and Wyatt was there, intercepting her. 

“You will not touch Miss Preston.” 

She shot a glare at Wyatt. Apparently, only certain people were able to touch her without permission. The woman before her, obviously harmless, but too far below her in society to warrant that luxury. The men who might marry her in the future, however, had every right to inspect the goods. 

The woman withdrew her hand, contrite. “I”m so sorry, Miss Preston.” 

“Please, it’s no problem. Call me Lucy.” She reached out to soothe the terrified woman. “What’s your name?” 

“Emily, Miss Preston.” She dipped in curtsy, chocolate brown curls bouncing at her shoulders. “I just got so excited to meet you. You’re my hero, you know. I wanted to thank you for everything you and your family have done. You saved us all.” 

Emily wasn’t the first to congratulate her on the genius of the Games, the benevolence of her family in restructuring society. But her ignorant innocence in the face of what Lucy had done was too much and she recoiled. 

“I’m nobody’s hero,” she said, nauseated. Nobody’s savior. The room dimmed and closed in, her ears buzzing as sweat blossomed at the nape of her neck, trailing down her bare back, cold despite the humid night drifting in from the veranda. Three sets of hands reached for her and she waved them away. “Please, excuse me. I need some air.” 

xxxxx

Flynn saw Lucy’s distress and crossed the stone without thinking, catching her as she stumbled into the open, Lucy’s hands fumbling for purchase at his lapels. Blinking up, her eyes met his and for a long moment neither of them moved. 

“There you are,” she breathed out, overwhelmed by the sight of him appearing out of nowhere in a jet black tails accented by a burgundy crushed velvet vest. Her heart slammed against her chest, vision still blurred around the periphery. She traced her fingers absently over the soft fabric, trying to ground herself in the feel of him, solid beneath her fingertips.

“Here I am.” 

“She doesn’t need your help.” Wyatt sneered. “Remove your hands.”

Flynn ignored him in favor of the woman still in his arms. “Are you okay?” 

“Mr. Flynn, I’m fine.” She attempted to sound dismissive, but her voice fluttered out, faint, breathy. 

She closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths to clear her head. When she opened them again, she noticed the bruise blooming at his temple, the sutured cut on his cheekbone, and she wanted to brush her fingertips across the tender surface. Flirting with Flynn to lull him into a false sense of security did not include gently inspecting his injuries, no matter how much she worried for him. Her parents would see the weakness before the warmth of his skin seeped into hers. Instead, she righted herself, offering him a hand to kiss. 

He bent and his lips drifted across the surface, his fingertips feathering over her palm. Making it a challenge to remember she had a part to play, the line between flirtation and falling for him, a nebulous, dangerous game. 

“I am glad to hear it,” he responded, straightening to come up to eye level with her. “Would you care for another martini?” 

Wyatt made to follow and she gave him an excuse to go elsewhere. “Please, you and Jess go enjoy the ball. I’ll be fine here.” 

She couldn’t risk him acting earlier than arranged to kill Flynn, needing as much time as possible to figure out a plan. Any plan would do. Even a bad one. She didn’t need Wyatt hanging on their every word the entire night. 

“With all respect, no. That would not be appropriate, Miss Preston.”  

Damn it, she’d have to try again later. Although not unexpected given the circumstances, his formal attitude unsettled her. She couldn’t push the situation too far or her family might simply take her out before she could save him. 

Lucy agreed to the drink and Flynn placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the clusters of guests to a smaller bar tucked into a corner, the Detroit skyline alight behind the bartender who turned immediately as they neared. The other patrons ducked away to gossip at the scene that just played out before them. 

“We’re the real entertainment for the evening, it appears.” Flynn chuckled, handing her a glass of vodka. All of this, an elaborate production. Just as staged as the entirety of the Games.

“I suppose that’s true.” She wanted to scream at him to run. 

The four of them collected their drinks and Flynn showed them to his table and pulled out a chair for Lucy, moving to stand beside her. They had mere hours together and he had no intention of wasting it. Given the company, dancing with her before Rittenhouse revealed their grand finale seemed unlikely, but maybe he’d feel her in his arms one last time before they staged his death. They couldn’t let him live, but they’d want it to be as spectacular as possible. 

Not that he had any intention of allowing them to succeed.

When it got down to brass tacks, they showed no intention of allowing him to leave of his own volition, so he settled in to enjoy what little time the two of them had together. 

He listened as Lucy and Jess chatted about innocuous, mundane things. The lack of good blackberries this year. The promise of storms in the morning. Their plans for Labor Day. Wyatt brooded, seething at him in the background.

“Tell me about your trip to the world’s libraries,” Flynn asked, at one point. Genuinely interested, despite the coincidental timing of the trip that took her out of the country when Rittenhouse committed the worst of the atrocities. “Which was your favorite?”

“Oh, the Baroque Library, which is part of the Klementinum University in Prague.” Flynn allowed himself this indulgence, charmed by Lucy’s dreamy eyed recitation about the history of the library, the frescoes painted over the arched ceilings. “Built in 1722, it contains the Vysehrad Codex, a manuscript written in 1085.” 

Lucy fell into full professor mode, explaining the twenty-six fully illustrated pages of the manuscript. 

Jess remembered the trip, remembered Lucy’s utter fascination with every piece of history she could learn about as they flew around the globe. It was the happiest that she’d ever seen her friend. Flynn didn’t seem to mind her enthusiasm one bit. In fact, he seemed quite taken with her. And she with him, she realized, noticing her pinky inching towards his. 

Jess’ guilt about her lies resurfaced. She felt helpless, trapped in Rittenhouse as much as Lucy. Caught in between the man she loved, the family that raised her, and her best friend. How many times had Lucy helped her up the stairs to their dorm room in Stanford when she stumbled home drunk? Held her as she cried when Wyatt broke her heart? She wanted to repay the favor. 

Lucy had very little choice when it came to the man she would marry. Jess hadn’t failed to notice the steady stream of suitors Carol Preston not so innocently introduced to her daughter. With Flynn, her friend looked happy again for the first time since she’d returned to fulfill her position within the Family.

The orchestra slowed the tempo and Jess slipped her hand into Wyatt’s, tugging him towards the dance floor. 

“You promised me,” she coaxed. In soldier mode, he refused to budge. “What could it hurt? We’re in the middle of a crowd.”

“Jessica…” Her name a gentle chide. “We can’t. You know we can’t.” 

“We can...“ She could see his weakening resolve. “We’ll even stay on the side just in case.” 

She slid up to give him a lingering kiss on the cheek and he relented. She gave Lucy a conspiratorial wink, dragging him off. 

“Are you okay?” Lucy asked as soon as they left, lifting her fingers to butterfly over the stiff white tape on his cheek. In her peripheral, Emma watched from a corner of the veranda. She withdrew her hand, tucking it into her lap and biting out, “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous. Why did you even come?” 

She knew she was panicking because she had no idea how to stop the runaway train barreling towards his death, but couldn’t control her reaction.

He arched an eyebrow. “Do you think they gave me a choice? They never let me out of their sight, going as far as to pick up my tux from Michele so I couldn’t use the excuse.” 

“They’re going to kill you!” Her voice rose and she clutched her martini, sipping to cover her anxiety. Unsteady, she spilled the liquid over the rim of the glass and set it back on the table. “You have to get out of here. I can’t save you.” 

He stilled her hand, drawing her eyes to his. “There’s nothing to be done, Lucy.”

“You have no idea what they’re planning. They’re--”

“Gonna try and kill me? Tell me something I don’t know.” He scanned the crowd, seeing the Rittenhouse Redhead pretending she wasn’t keeping an eye on him. “The operative word in that sentence is try. This isn’t the first time my life has been on the line.”

She curled her fingers away from his, terrified of being caught. “They expect me to lead you right into their trap.” 

“That isn’t surprising.” Sadness lined his features as he studied her. He wondered how much of her life was her own. The Lucy Preston he met in Sao Paulo was desperate, but confident. This woman seemed like she was flailing for purchase in a stormy sea and drowning.

“Jess started to tell me something before the ball tonight. She said I was supposed to be working against them. In different world, I think.” Lucy downed the rest of her vodka. “Sometimes, when I look at you, I feel like we’ve known each other before. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s there. Buried beneath the conditioning of my family, beneath the years living in sheltered denial. Somehow, there’s you, waiting for me.” 

Their bodies drew closer, fingers intertwining again. “Dance with me, Lucy.”

“I need another martini.” She knocked the high stool backwards in her haste to stand. 

Emma met her retreat, catching the chair before it hit the floor. “Lucy, darling. Your father just sent me to fetch the two of you.” 

Her shoulders slumped, knowing she’d lost. Her head whipped around to warn Flynn and he met her gaze, unflinching. Nicholas took command of the stage, calling both of them forward. 

Step by step. Hand in hand. Their time was at an end. They took their places in the center of the room while the President spoke of Flynn like a hero returning from war, rising above his checkered past to regain his name, his life, his future. A shining example of the good they could accomplish. 

“I think I would’ve liked more time with you.” Her body turned to his, dipping in curtsy as the orchestra began a simple waltz. His hand slipped around her waist to rest on her bare back. “Maybe in another lifetime.” 

As he swept her around the floor, the theater of it all crashed in on her. Lucy’s lungs froze in terror with the dawning realization that this final show was for one person’s benefit. Hers. Her family wanted her to know that they might threaten to change her past, but they knew how to assure her unquestioned obedience. They’d shoot Flynn and leave him to bleed at her feet. 

The last of her delusions stripped away; she’d played her part to perfection, walking right into their hands.

“We’ll get you out of here. I won’t let them have you.” Her gaze shifting over the swirling room, determined to find a previously undiscovered exit. To find an army of Resistance fighters blending into the crowd. 

“Don’t worry, I have a plan, I promise.” 

Her whole body stiffened. “Well, you could’ve told me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He had the audacity to wink at her. She relaxed again as their bodies meandered around the floor in a slow, languorous dance. Aching with might’ve been, longing for could be, gravitating together until no air remained between them. “It’s not a very good plan, mind you.” 

She tilted her chin up to look at him, her laugh a chiming twinkle carried away by the music. 

“Why am I not surprised?” 

There. To the right of the stage. Flynn found his reaper waiting in the shadows, preparing for whatever came next. 

“Looks like our time is at an end, Lucy Preston.” 

His hands released her, reaching up to frame her face. Stopping in full view of the entire room, color bathed down over them from the ceiling. A streak of blue across her face. A slash of red across his. Candlelight glowing in the background. The murmuring crowd faded away as he leaned down and she threaded her arms around his neck, drawing him closer.

Lucy didn’t care who saw them kiss, but once their lips met, she knew she couldn’t go back to her family. Even if they would still have her after this. Whatever else Jess might’ve been about to tell her earlier, forgotten as the knowledge that she wasn’t meant to fight for Rittenhouse settled over her. 

She and Flynn were meant to fight against them. Together. 

Their lips parted, and she whispered, “I’m coming with you,” their exhaled breath mingling as chaos erupted.

Wyatt launched into action and Flynn threw himself around Lucy, shielding her and propelling them into the gasping crowd. Two bullets fired in rapid succession, one hitting a middle aged woman in purple taffeta, the other grazing Flynn’s shoulder, but not drawing blood, and shattering a carving of an Aztec god in a column ten feet away. He shoved through a group of shocked and screaming debutantes, glancing down at the woman tucked into his side. 

“My life is dangerous, Lucy. You’ll never be safe.” Two guards came at them and he released her in time to grab a stool, cracking it into the side of the man on the left and knocking them both to the ground. He crouched over Lucy, guiding her as they made a beeline for the corner of the veranda where he’d caught sight of a fire escape earlier. 

Apparently done with shooting civilians, Wyatt barreled over the bodies on the ground in the name of the President. He broke free and aimed his weapon at Flynn, Lucy moving to block any shot. Emma appeared on his right, several more guards pushing through the crowd to get to them. 

“I’m not safe now,” she pointed out, giving him a wry smile and time to get over the ledge, sure of her choice. 

Flynn hesitated, then nodded, knowing her family would retaliate one way or the other. At least this way, she’d be with him. He extended his arms, lifting her to the small metal platform. 

“Then it’s time to run.” 

Wyatt and Emma enunciated his point when they fired again. 

Flynn and Lucy bolted down the stairs, sirens wailing in the distance. Lucy ditched her heels when one got caught in the grating; she’d rather take her chances in bare feet. They’d get farther if she wasn’t twisting her ankle every five seconds. Flynn kicked the ladder at the bottom until he freed it. Scrambling down the rust covered rungs, he dropped to the ground and reached up to catch Lucy as she did the same, wincing at his still-bruised ribs. 

More guards joined Emma and Wyatt, ducking down behind the crenelated ledge and shooting at them through the pines. Spraying chips of concrete when the shots went wide and ricocheted off the street. Guards burst out the front door, knocking over the fleeing guests. 

Flynn and Lucy ran, sliding in front of an old green Chevy blazer and dipping into the voided spaces between street lamps. He tugged her into a crevice between two derelict buildings, her skin scraping against brick, feet crunching over the rough pebbles of the deteriorating walls. She fumbled forward blindly, never releasing her hold, trusting him not to leave her behind. 

They crashed through the Saturday night crowds, bars whizzing past them as Flynn zig-zagged through the blocks towards the lake. Lucy could smell the water in the distance. Only when he could be certain no one still followed them did he finally turn into an alley and shove aside a corrugated metal wall. He waved her into the narrow opening and squeezed through behind her, replacing the decoy wall that hid this entrance. 

They jogged down a narrow tunnel, the dirt floor cool and slightly damp, making several turns before slowing to a stop. Voices echoed down to them from an illuminated room up ahead. Flynn laid a gentle touch on her arm to stop her from going any further. 

She shrank back. “Of course, I understand, you don’t really have any reason to trust me.” 

“Lucy, stop. You have nothing to fear from me.” He took in her now tattered silk dress, her bare feet, scratched and dirty, the crooked silver tiara tangled into her hair, tendrils fallen loose and clinging to her cheeks. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, but first things first. “I do need to give you this last chance to walk away. You made a split second decision in the heat of the moment, I won’t fault you if you want to return to your family. But I have to look out for those under my protection. Once you enter that room, there is no turning back. Our lives are not glamorous and there is the ever present likelihood of death for all of us. We accept that truth from day one.”

Against his better judgement, he knew he was falling in love with her. He might be willing to risk his own heart in this endeavor, but he’d never risk the team. She chose him when she ran away from her family, but he wouldn’t hold her to it. If she’d been half as affected by their kiss as he had, she’d made her choice under duress, so to speak. 

“I will arrange to get you back to the Citadel if you so desire, but if you betray the team after stepping through that door…” He didn’t need to finish the threat. 

Lucy said nothing, just walked up to the doorway and waited, keeping her eyes fixed on him. She chose this battle, with this man. She’d never betray any of them, he and his team meant too much to this world. Whatever came at her, she’d face it head on, and eventually they’d learn to trust her. For now, it was enough that he was starting to. 

He pulled her tight to his chest, reveling in the feeling of her small frame protected by his body, before gesturing to the bright room beyond. 

“Welcome to the Resistance, Lucy Preston.” 

  



	14. The Grace of the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some good Garcy in there for you this time.

The striated white walls soared up twenty feet and Lucy craned her neck to take in the entirety of the cavernous space. She traced a set of black and orange cables that snaked up one wall and disappeared into a small rounded passageway. On a ledge on the other side, an antenna perched midway between floor and ceiling aimed at a concave metal circle bolted to the wall maybe fifteen feet away. 

“Bouncing radio waves?” she asked Flynn, dredging up her limited scientific knowledge. Two men  stared at her, seated behind a thick piece of plywood balanced atop stacks of milk crates, mouths flapping like guppies. 

“Bossman?” the rail thin blonde man on the right inquired, going for the weapon at his side. “What in the holy lighted fires of hell are you thinking?” 

The second man tensed, holding his body in alert, but keeping his hands in sight. “Well that explains all the chatter. Flynn, would you care to explain why you brought Lucy Preston here?” 

“New recruit,” he informed two identical looks of utter disbelief. “Alright, one of the riskier recruits, I’ll give you, but still, Karl, put your gun away.” 

 _New recruit,_ Karl mouthed to the second man, incredulous, but returning his weapon to the holster. “Did they completely knock your brain loose in that Arena?” 

Flynn laughed, sending a shot of pain through his ribs, and doubled over. Worry sketched across Lucy’s features as she wrapped an arm around his waist, fingers gentle on his bicep, steadying him.

The second, square-jawed man watched the tenderness between them with fascination. Garcia Flynn was being fussed over and not arguing. It baffled the mind.

“Well, alrighty then.” He crossed to Lucy, extending his hand. “Name’s Dave Baumgartner, Miss Preston. Everybody just calls me Bam Bam though.” 

“Please, I prefer Lucy.” He gripped her hand rather than kissing her fingertips like some china doll come to life, as if she ought to be labeled, ‘Handle With Care'. She appreciated it. “Nice to meet you, Bam Bam.” 

“And you as well,” he replied, polite as pie. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The man sulking in the corner is Karl.” 

“I am not sulking. It’s called being cautious.” He pushed off the wall, salt dusting to the ground. “I don’t care how much it _appears_ she cares for him. She’s Rittenhouse. What were you thinking?” 

Lucy shivered in the cool air of the cave, unsure if she should plead her case or stay silent, but she remained, unflinching at Flynn’s side. 

“I was thinking that Rittenhouse was trying to kill me and she placed her body in front of mine.” Cranky and irritated, he explained himself, his words terse.  If their roles were reversed, Flynn would react the same. “I was thinking, having been raised on the inside, she could be a valuable asset.”

“They could change her life in the fluttering blink of her pretty eyes. Did you even check to see if she was wired?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I checked.” Lucy did a double take and cocked her head up at him, threading their fingers. He answered her unspoken question, softening his gaze as he turned to her. “Our dance. The only thing I really worried about was that ridiculous tiara, but as I’m almost a foot taller than you, it wasn’t hard to ensure you weren’t bugged.” 

His second in command shook his head at the exchange and threw his up his hands. “You’re a fool. They’re going to retaliate against us.” 

If it had been anyone other than Karl, he would have reminded them why he was in charge. 

“Of course they’ll retaliate against us. It’s not unexpected.”His injuries did not appreciate the continued explanations. “But they won’t change her life, no matter how many times they threaten. They know she’s with me and they’re going to want her for the information she could provide. If they alter her past, there’s no guarantee she’ll be able to remember anything.” 

Lucy considered his words. Garcia wasn’t wrong. Nicholas tended toward pragmatism, not impulse. Rittenhouse would still go on the offense against them, but not in the way they’d threatened. 

It hit her. “They can’t touch me. If they do, they risk their control of the world.” Thinking through what that meant going forward.

“There’s no way they’re letting go,” Flynn concurred, squeezing her hand in attempted reassurance. 

“But they could come for all of you.” Dread slithered through her veins. What had she done? She dropped danger right into their laps. She tried to tug her hand from Flynn’s. He wouldn’t let go. “I should’ve stayed on the inside.” 

He lifted their joined hands to his chest, pulling her closer. “Lucy, they staged tonight entirely for your benefit, they had to know you were compromised. I think they wanted to push you one way or the other. If you’d stayed, they’d have continued using you as their pawn, waiting for you to fair. Leaving showed your cards, but also forced them to plan B.”

She threaded an arm around him, pressing her forehead to his chest, her lips brushing over his knuckles. Together. They were together. Whatever came at them, they’d face it. 

Bam Bam laid a hand on Karl’s shoulder, huddling in and lowering his voice. “Look at her, man. She’s not cataloging anything to report back. She’s not cowering as you rail about how she’s going to betray him. She’s barefoot and barely upright, but still more concerned about Flynn than herself.” He straightened, offering an honest smile to bedraggled daughter of Rittenhouse. “I apologize, Lucy. Give him a chance, he’s not so bad.” 

Her answering smile warmed Flynn. Dave liking her spoke volumes. That had been the reason he brought her here first. If Bam Bam sensed any duplicity, he’d have reacted with far less diplomacy.

“It’s okay. I wouldn’t trust me either.” 

A shiver she couldn’t stifle rippled over her and Flynn removed his jacket, holding it open. Lucy slipped her arms into the still warm sleeves tugging the opening around her, swamped by the silken fabric. 

“Good. Cuz I don’t.” Karl turned back to the makeshift desk and flopped into the metal folding chair in an immaculate imitation of a hormonal teenager. “I suppose you’d like an update.” 

Flynn shook his head, knowing he’d come around. He just needed to be dramatic about it for a little while. And in the meantime, he’d still get the job done.

“Everything ran smooth without me, I imagine?” 

“Of course.” Karl lifted a set of headphones to one ear. “The kids did well. They’re both smarter than shit. It might be time to give them some more responsibilities. Other than that, deliveries were delivered and no one’s starving.” 

Lucy started to feel like she was living out a spy novel. The blonde spoke in half coded language while fidgeting with the dials of an old radio. Which part would she play in the TV movie of her life? Probably the naive heiress that defects, vowing to use her money only for good. 

She laughed out loud, quickly covering her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I just--” She swallowed more laughter. “Defecting heiress. Should I swoon now? I feel if there were a time for swooning, it would be now.” She cracked up again, swiping at the tears that leaked from her eyes with the cuff of his tux jacket. Bam Bam and Flynn shared an understanding look while she sucked in deep breaths of cool air. Clearing her throat, she recovered her composure. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing. I think I might be overly tired. Today has been a day. Carry on.” 

Karl’s head swiveled from Flynn to her and back again, wary. “You sure she’s not crazy, boss? You know how them royals are.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” The bunker seemed miles away. “They’re Rittenhouse, not the Romanovs. She just needs sleep.” 

Karl raised an eyebrow. “If you say so.” 

Lucy swayed on her feet and Flynn sped up the process, ignoring Karl in favor of Dave. “Activity about what we expected?” 

Bam Bam nodded. “Well, the two of you showing up here explains the chaos that erupted on the scanner earlier. Alarms went off all over the city. The radio waves exploded and it became hard to sift through with any accuracy. We figured out that a shooting went down at the Vanity Ballroom involving Garcia Flynn and Lucy Preston.”

Flynn filled him in. “They tried to kill me at the ball. Surprise, surprise. I survived, slightly more of a surprise. And though not entirely unexpected, Lucy Preston joined the resistance. I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow. Sound good?

“Sounds good. I expect they’ll get organized and start searching for her by morning. I’ll keep an eye on it, send out some guys to cause a distraction if necessary. As far as the rest, the response to the Games and such, we’re right on schedule.” 

“Bring John and Philly in. It’s time.” 

“Gotcha, now go get some sleep.” Bam Bam moved around behind the radios, picking up a second set of headphones. “Be careful. They’re gonna be gunning for you. Both of you.” 

Flynn nodded, turning to Karl, “Start training the kids.” He glanced up from scribbling furious notes on a yellow legal pad. “And do some yoga. You’re too stressed.” 

“I still got your back,” he grunted out in reply. “Also glad you’re not dead.” 

“The feeling is mutual. I’ll send Q down in the morning.” Flynn led Lucy to another hidden doorway, pulling back a series of loosened boards. He called over his shoulder. “You need anything, send word immediately.”  

They wound through another series of tunnels that felt endless. By the time the door to the bunker appeared like an oasis in the desert, her feet were frozen, sore, bloody, and stiff. Lucy had no idea where she’d sleep tonight, but she’d give anything to be horizontal. Between the finale of the Games and the Ball, then fleeing her family and joining the fight against them, she had nothing left to give.

Flynn kept himself upright by sheer force of stubborn will. They still had to deal with Agent Christopher. He doubted the woman would shoot him, but no guarantees. Though, he survived the Games, that should win him a few minutes to plead his case. Maybe. Spinning the wheel on the door, he heaved it open and stepped through, Lucy at his side. Closing it, Flynn took a deep breath, hesitant to face whatever Denise threw at them. The small woman at his side looked dead on her feet and he wasn’t far behind. 

“Don’t just stand in the doorway, both of you get in here.” 

“Um...How does she?” Lucy asked, too tired to sort through it. 

Flynn shrugged and started walking. "I never question her powers."

The scene laid out before them duplicated a hundred others. Jiya and Rufus, snuggling on the couch, a pile of research forgotten on the coffee table. Agent Christopher stirring a pot of soup, an empty can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle on the counter next to her.

“There are clothes for her laid out in your room. The two of you can decide the sleeping situation, but she’ll stay with you, Flynn. Make sure she doesn’t kill us all in our sleep.” She turned the burner off on the stove and retrieved two bowls from the cabinet. She flashed an apologetic smile at Lucy. “No offense, of course, but you understand.” 

She did. “How did you know I was coming?” 

“Sit first. Both of you look seconds from collapsing.” She carried the bowls to the table. Exhausted and starving, Lucy and Flynn obliged her, seeing no good reason to argue. Once they were seated and eating, Denny propped her chin on her folded hands. “So, you’ve had quite the exciting night. An assassination attempt. A daring escape. The long drawn out gazes. That kiss! Oh, I swooned.”

Lucy choked on her soup. “How in the world?” 

Denise simply pointed to the television, playing low in the background. Footage of their kiss aired in slow motion technicolor. “You were surrounded by a bunch of rich people with too much money and time on their hands. Of course they filmed everything.”

“My favorite part is when she stood in front of a bullet for him.” Jiya sat up on the couch, rubbing her eyes. “Rufus and I were both rooting for you two crazy kids.” 

“I couldn’t just let them shoot him.” Lucy blushed, remembering the impulse. “But I couldn’t let him go. I didn’t want to. I’m tired of being the lead actress in this production, playing a part, but never fully aware of it. I choose him. I choose all of you. If you’ll have me,” she added, worried they’d throw her out on the street anyway. She’d never escape the Citadel again if her family caught her. 

“You can stay." Rufus dragged his body up, resting his chin on his girlfriend's shoulder. "We had Jiya check you out.” 

Jiya scratched lightly at his scruffy jaw and he closed his eyes again, leaning into her, “The whole situation is halfway to crazy anyway. We can always use another smart woman on the team.” 

“One with intimate knowledge of Rittenhouse.” Denise gave Lucy a pointed look. 

She readily agreed. “Don’t worry, anything you want to know, I’ll tell you. I don’t know what your real plan is, but I want to help.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that your staying with Flynn. He’s the best to guard you.” A conspiratorial smile tugged at her lips. “Though, I don’t imagine that’ll be much of a hardship.” 

This time it was Flynn’s turn to choke on his soup. “We barely know each other!” 

“That’s factually true. I just don’t think it matters.” She rose, taking their empty bowls with her. “Remember, I watched the footage of your kiss and everything that came after.” 

“I don’t--we don’t--that is--” Lucy fumbled for an explanation. 

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Denise flipped on the sink, washing out the dishes. “There’s soap and shampoo in the bathroom on a clean towel. I imagine you’ll want to get cleaned up.” 

“Thank you,” Lucy replied, grateful for the small kindness and warm, if unexpected, welcome. 

Flynn reached around, pulling her close, his head on her stomach. She was with him and safe. Anyone that came at her would have to go through him. 

“My room’s on the right. Bathroom’s up farther on the left. Go on ahead, I’ll be right behind.” 

She kissed the top of his head and padded towards a hot shower. Flynn stood, crossing to the sink. 

“How bad is it really?” 

“Bad.” She passed him a spoon to set in the basket. “They’re saying the assassination was coordinated by the Resistance and aimed at Lucy. That your plan the entire time was to abduct her.” 

“It was their soldier, Wyatt.” He sagged, hands braced on the edge of the sink. “She went with me willingly.”

“I know.” Denny switched off the faucet. “But that’s not how they’re spinning it. They say you seduced her. That she is the innocent daughter of America, led astray. She’s more valuable now than she was three hours ago and they’ll use every resource available to recover her.”

“You think they planned all of this?” Flynn scrubbed the heel of his palm between his eyes.

“Don’t you?” Denise folded the dishrag, draping it over the faucet. Her voice held no recrimination. “You knew it the moment you lifted her onto that fire escape.” 

She lifted the plug from the sink, releasing the water, and they watched the level as it lowered until the basin emptied. 

Flynn shifted his focus to the tarnished gold veins of the fake marble linoleum. “I couldn’t leave her there.” 

“Any of us would have done the same.” She dried her hands on a thin, greying dishtowel.

Flynn might be the head of the Resistance outside of the bunker, but inside, Denise held them all together and talked them into doing the right thing. Then woke up the next day and talked them into continuing to do the right thing. Without her, Flynn probably would’ve left it all to burn by now. 

“You would have shot her first,” he joked, feeling the tension leave his body. 

“Nothing that couldn’t be fixed.” Denny chuckled and turned around to face the living room area. The couple there flipped off the television and gathered their bottles of water. 

“If you could refrain from that impulse going forward, I’d appreciate it.” 

She rolled her eyes. “I promise not to shoot your girlfriend first thing.” 

“She’s not my--” he started to argue, then gave up, falling serious again. “We have to assume they believe Lucy told us about their 9/11 plan.”

“Do we need to worry?” It was times like these she really missed Michelle and her steady unyielding support. Jiya coaxed Rufus from the couch and Denise thought about Mark and Olivia asleep in her room. About the family Flynn lost and how much the success of this mission held in the balance. “Think she told them anything about us? ” 

“I don’t.” He pushed up and turned, leaning against the countertop watching Rufus and Jiya wander to their room. “Are we certain we’re doing the right thing? People are going to get hurt. Probably die. More than a few.”

She sighed. “If we had any other choice, the opportunity passed us long ago.” 

“The good of the many?”

“The good of the many.” Denise threw out the empty soup can and shooed him in the direction of his room. “Don’t forget to change your bandages. Don’t put it off until I check you out in the morning, we need you alive.” 

“I’m happy to be home too.” Flynn threw an arm over her shoulder and offered her a half hug before heading to his room. 

The space soothed the last of the tension from his body, everything exactly as he left it save for the stack of clothes for Lucy. Who was in the shower. Who’d have to get out of the shower and parade through the bunker in just a towel. 

Flynn’s mind fritzed. Not because anyone else might see her, no one here would make her feel uncomfortable or even think anything of it. They’d been living in close quarters for far too long for much modesty to remain. But the idea that she might enter his room in one of their threadbare scraps of material, her sodden hair falling over her bare shoulders, water dripping--

He grabbed the clothes, an old grey t-shirt of his and a pair of Jiya’s sweats, and scurried from the room out of fear she’d finish her shower before he got there. The image of her standing naked in the bathroom, leaving puddles of water at her feet, burned itself into his brain. He made it there without having a heart attack and approached the door, cautious that he not startle her or overstep his bounds. 

“Lucy?” He knocked lightly on the door. Hearing the shower running, he breathed easier and knocked a little louder and opened it a few inches, careful to avert his eyes on the off chance she stood nearby. “Lucy, you forgot the clothes.” 

He shoved his arm into the room, dangling them from his death grip until he realized that then she’d have to get out of the shower and come close enough to grab them. _Danger!_ his brain screamed at him as he tried to figure out what to do other than drop them on the floor and run. 

“It’s fine, Flynn.” Hearing her voice, he turned back to look and the door opened wider. Her head poked just above the shower door, toes and ankles peeking out below. Too much, it was too much for him to handle. “Just bring them in and put them with the towel.” 

She laughed as he stepped into the room and crept across the tiled floor, specifically not even glancing in her direction. Lucy went back to washing her hair, facing away from him. 

The reflection of her graceful neck in the mirror caught his attention and he watched, mesmerized as a stream of shampoo trailed down and disappeared, blocked from view.

“I’ll just leave them on the bench.” His voice cracked with the knowledge that she stood only feet away. In two steps he could be kissing her. He spun in retreat, almost losing his balance on a patch of water. Hearing his muttered curse, she swirled, hand on the top of the door ready to help him. He held up a frantic hand. “I’m fine! I’m fine!” 

When he regained his feet and headed to the door, she knew she didn’t want him to leave. 

“You could stay and talk to me.” The invitation rushed out, timid, unsure of his answer.

He froze in the middle of the floor, studying the brick colored tile. “What do you want to talk about?” 

“Anything.” She reached for the conditioner, squirting a dollop into her palm and massaging it into the ends of her hair. “I thought maybe you could tell me a story about yourself. I mean, you don’t have to, but we don’t really know anything about each other.” She paused, searching for the right words. “I guess, just being near you makes me feel better. Safer. Like I made the right choice tonight.”  

Step by intentional step, Flynn crossed to the bench, lifting the clothing and sitting down, clutching the pile in his lap. 

She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. His bangs hung over his forehead, sweat from the steam of her shower running down the side of his cheek. The thought occurred to her to open the door and invite him to share the heady stream of water. Resisting the image, she refocused. He would actually want a shower tonight as well and she shouldn’t dawdle. 

He remained silent for so long she thought he’d never answer her. But he had stayed and that would be enough. 

“Growing up, I spent my summers in Croatia with my mother and her family. My father was a GI so we moved from base to base, sometimes not even staying long enough to make any real friends. So going to my mother’s country, running down the beach at the edge of the sea, even if only for a few months a year, felt more like home than anywhere else.” 

She rinsed the shampoo from her hair, facing away to allow him the space to talk. His baritone voice rippled over her and she tried to envision a young Garcia Flynn kicking up sand, bathed in sunshine and the freedom of childhood. 

He memorized every cut on her feet as he spoke, noticing the bubbles that gathered around her toes. “After he died, we moved there permanently. I missed him, but with the extended family that surrounded me, the pain of it faded into a dull ache. But after it first happened…”

He paused, blinking back unshed tears at the long buried loss. “My Aunt Rosita found me one night, crying underneath a tree behind the house. She’d come out for some air and overheard me. She didn’t say anything, just helped me up and we walked to a tiny, abandoned stone church nestled into a valley between two craggy hills. The roof had collapsed and the full moon fell over the chapel. Stained glass survived in jagged shatters, decades of color ground into a fine dust below that glittered in the moonlight. The windows glowed with spikes of color, but from above, just white light.” 

Lucy didn’t move, not wanting to interrupt. She thought he looked peaceful. If she could bottle the wistful look he wore, she’d hide it away for the worst of days.

“We sat there as she told me the story of the day my parents met. My father had been on leave from Camp Darby in Italy and decided to explore Croatia. His car broke down in the hills above Sibenik and he found my mother tending to the family’s goats. They were married the following summer.” 

A smile skimmed across his face as he leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, lost in the memory. 

“We sat on the old grey stone pews and Aunt Rosita told me stories for hours that night. About how my father never missed a chance to use his leave from the military to visit her. How they exchanged long letters that must’ve eased their separation. Their first dance together standing in the middle of a sudden summer rainstorm. My mother confessing to her sister that she thought she was falling in love.”

Lucy wished she were sitting next to him, her presence a simple comfort.

“Aunt Rosie let me cry myself dry and I remember she didn’t offer me any platitudes, didn’t try and explain away the hole in my heart. That’s the thing about grief. There’s never the right words to say. Nothing ever fills the empty spaces. She knew that. It became my sanctuary, a place the world couldn’t touch. Something always draws me back there. ”

Flynn fell silent again, remembering the quiet solitude of the ruined place. He never properly thanked his Aunt for sharing it with him. 

“After Lorena and Iris were murdered, I went, seeking solace in the crumbling walls, praying for guidance." His thumb smoothed over the soft cotton t-shirt in his lap, voice quiet. "I ended up in Detroit.”

He looked up again and she couldn’t tear herself away from the storm in his eyes. “Why Detroit?” 

“I don’t know,” he lied, gaze skirting away, unready to tell her the truth. That somehow the universe conspired to bring them together, not once, but twice. A second chance at that first decision. He set her clothes aside and rose. “I should go.”

“Garcia?” 

“Yes?”

She turned to switch off the water. “Would you mind handing me the towel before you go?” 

“Uh, sure.” He looked from Lucy to the faded pale green towel and back again, wrestling with the decision to approach her. Finally he picked it up and walked over, holding it out. 

When he got close enough, she covered his hand with hers, drawing him in. Chipped and peeling paint from the steel shower door flaked off next to streaks of dirt and brick on his white tux shirt.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” A drop of water trailed down her cheekbone, her jaw, the curve of her neck, settling in the hollow of her throat. 

“For everything. For helping me see the truth of my family. For taking a chance and trusting me inside your home. For the soup and the t-shirt and the hot shower.” Her wet arm braced on top of the door and pressed against his shirtsleeve, the water making the fabric translucent. “But mostly for the story.” 

Before he could respond, she pushed up on her tiptoes, fingers stroking the rough stubble of his cheek, and kissed him. This one, nothing like the others. No imminent Rittenhouse attack, no death waiting in the wings. It breezed in on the first warm day of spring. Sweet, gentle, a hint of summer heat, but for now, a simple promise.

The towel slipped from his grasp as she pulled away. 

“Your welcome.”  

He wandered back to his room in a daze. 

There had been no one since Lorena. Since Iris. No one held a candle to them and it seemed unfair to drag someone into the insanity of his life. No time to fall in love during the apocalypse.

Flynn never could’ve predicted Lucy Preston. Or her chaotic effect on him. He could still feel her hand on his cheek, the care in her touch as he loosened his tie and removed his vest, tossing it over the back of the desk chair. The press of her lips lingered as he switched the sheets, folding a fresh blanket at the end of the bed, not knowing if she’d get cold at night. In the quiet humming of the bunker, his heart cracked open, making space for her. 

“Garcia?” A light knock came followed by the creak of the door. “Flynn?” 

“Come on in.” He collected clean clothes for his own shower. “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep in the chair.” He indicated a half moon reading chair with a small embroidered footstool.

“No, that’s absolutely not necessary,” she insisted, hair wrapped in a towel, clutching a ruined ball gown. She padded over to the desk chair, swamped in his old shirt, Jiya’s pants bunched up around her ankles, and tossed it to land next to his vest. Between the two chairs and a small footstool, she’d be able to fashion a serviceable facsimile of a bed.“I’ll sleep in the chair. I’m smaller, I’ll fit better. Besides, I wouldn’t want to impose.” 

“It’s fine. I don’t sleep much anyway.” She puttered around him, adjusting the seating. He stopped her when she folded her gown into a pillow. “Please, Lucy, take the bed. I swear it’s not an inconvenience.”

The crisp clean sheets tempted her and she decided to switch tactics. “If you insist.” 

“Oh. Oh, okay. So then...uh...” Taken aback, he fumbled for a response, clearly not trusting her easy capitulation. “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long. There are books tucked into the walls if you’d like.” 

She unwound the towel, scanning the long narrow room for a place to hang it. He reached out and crossed to drape it on a hook by the door, picking up his own in the process.

“Which do you prefer, by the way?” she asked before he left, dropping to sit cross-legged on the bed.

“What do you mean?” 

“Garcia or Flynn?” She finger combed through her hair. “You introduced yourself as Garcia, but everybody else calls you Flynn.” 

“Actually, I introduced myself as Mr. Paulo.”

“That you did.” Only two weeks since _Enchante_ , she hardly recognized her life. 

He leaned in the open doorway, his tux shirt torn and dirty, collar and cuffs unbuttoned. “Out of curiosity, which do you prefer?” 

She wrinkled her nose, considering it. “Flynn suits you, but I think I like calling you Garcia.”

“I like hearing you say it. But really, either is fine.” He laid a hand on the door. “I’ll be right back.”  

She found a dog-eared copy of Hemingway and got comfortable on the small cot, tucking onto her side and pulling the blanket up to her waist. She didn’t make it past the first paragraph before dozing off. The next time she opened her eyes, he stood, back to her, faded green sweatpants slung low on his hips. 

He nudged the leg of the desk chair out of bed formation so he could collapse into it. Leaning down to retrieve the first aid kit from the bottom drawer of an old metal school desk, he bit back a grunt of pain. 

“Let me help,” she mumbled, sleepy, but charmed at how hard he tried not to wake her. She tossed the covers aside and indicated he should pass it over. Setting it on the bed, she scooted forward, rising so she could focus on the yellow, green, and purple bruises mottled across his rib cage. 

“You should let these be. Wrapping them’s fine if you’re trying to stay upright while being beaten to a pulp. You need to heal.” Lucy withdrew a gauze pad from the kit. She indicated the wound on his left arm from the katana.  “I assume you cleaned it.”

“Yes.” 

She paused, remembering the slash across his thigh. “Your leg? Does it need to be dressed?” 

He coughed and shifted in the seat. “No, no, I’m good. We have another kit in the bathroom. I just didn’t want you to be alone, so I came back to finish the rest.”

She moved to stand between his legs, bending as she set to work. Her lashes danced against her cheeks as her touch feathered over the smallest injuries, tending to the worst with a kindness he hadn’t felt in years. The world around them might be burning, but they found each other despite it all. Twice now. 

He opened his mouth to tell her the story of Sao Paulo, but she stopped him. Setting the first aid kit on the desk, she extended her hand.

“Come to bed.” 

He glanced towards the opal and pale green reading chair. “I’ll be fine in the chair. Really.” 

She settled onto the bed. “Don’t be silly. You’re lucky to be alive. Either get into the bed, or I’ll get out and take the chair, which appears quite uncomfortable, and you can sleep alone.” 

Flynn avoided the entire conversation by noticing her feet. He turned and grabbed the kit, snapping it open. Gathering the supplies he needed, he lined them up next to her on the bed. The footstool served as a seat and he lifted her right foot, placing it on his knee. 

“Flynn, This isn’t necessary.” 

He kept her foot in his hand. “You ran barefoot for an hour through the streets of the Outskirts, then spent another half hour trudging through varying shades of filthy subterranean tunnels.” 

She twisted her ankle and he loosened his grip. “I cleaned them out in the shower.” 

“You need to bandage them,” he didn’t hide the plea in his voice. 

Lucy picked up the gauze. “I can do it, you don’t need to.” 

“I know.” His long fingers traced the arch of her foot, her toes curled in response. 

“Will you come to bed after?” 

Holding his breath, he nodded. She handed him the roll of bandage and leaned back, propping her hands behind her on the bed. The tension left her as he cleaned and tended to even the shallowest scrape. 

Afterwards, she lifted the covers and invited him to join her on the small cot. 

He could say that he climbed in behind her with completely altruistic motives: to save her from a night in that torture chamber of a chair. He could say that, as he wrapped his injured arm around her waist, snuggling into her, the vanilla of her shampoo surrounding him, but he’d be a liar. 

At the end of the world, he just wanted to hold her.

He dipped his nose into the nape of her neck and murmured, “I need to tell you something,” closing his eyes against her possible reactions. 

Her fingertips traced lazy circles over his forearm. “It can’t wait until morning?” 

“I don’t think so.” His thumb trailed down her side. “At least, I’d prefer to tell you now. At the beginning.”

The beginning sounded nice.

“What is it, Garcia?” Lucy twisted so they faced each other. “I promise I won’t betray you if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“I’m not.” She deserved the truth. However hard she found it to believe. He couldn’t put it off any longer, so he just said it. “We met once before.” 

“Of course, at Michele’s.” She propped her head up on her palm. 

“Not that time. Before that.” Flynn swallowed, taking a deep breath. “Before Rittenhouse took over.” 

She thought back through the possible times they could have crossed paths. “I don’t understand. I’d remember you if we’d met, trust me.” 

She leaned forward, giving him a quick kiss and he savored the sensation before continuing. 

“It was years ago.” She pulled back, taking in his troubled expression. “After the murder of my family, I ran. As far and as fast I could. Throwing darts at a map to choose the next destination. I ended up in Sao Paulo, Brazil. Drinking in a dingy bar, as I did in those days. Friday night, the bar packed, and you walked right up to me. You knew me.” 

Lucy sat up, bending her knees under her. “That’s not possible. I’ve never been to Brazil.” 

“Maybe it was another version of you. I’m not sure anymore. You had a journal of another life we shared. It felt like we--” he broke off, afraid to reveal too much of his own hope. ”It was you.” 

He sat up, leaning against the shell of the bunker. Giving her as much space as she needed. She stayed kneeling, not touching him, but not shying away either.

He steeled himself. “You knew everything. About Lorena and Iris. About Rittenhouse. You told me we were meant to beat them. Together.” 

He let the information hang between them, watching her thoughts play out on her face. Confusion flickered followed by disbelief then shock. Cautious acceptance. Back to confusion. 

“We met before.” Lucy sorted through her rippling emotions. It made complete sense and none at all. But she couldn’t deny that with every successive meeting, the draw to him grew stronger. It felt right to be at his side. She couldn’t explain it any better than that. “But we didn’t end up fighting them. Not until now.” 

“No. We didn’t.” The tone in his voice brought her eyes back to his. Guilt warred with regret. 

They had so much they needed to talk about, but it could wait. “Not tonight, please.” 

“Are you sure?” Selfishly, he wanted as much time with her before she looked at him with disgust for leaving her alone in that dingy bar. 

“I’m sure.” She stretched out her legs and nestled into the pillow. She only understood half of what went on today and the coming days promised to test her in ways she couldn’t yet imagine. “I’m scared.” 

“I know.” Relieved, he laid down behind her, molding his body into a shield for hers.

Lucy burrowed into him, trusting her choice. “In our other life, I bet we have spaghetti Sundays.” 

His lips quirked up in a half smile. “Spaghetti Sundays?” 

“Yes.” Flynn unfolded the blanket, covering them halfway. She added, “And breakfast for dinner nights.”

“Is that so?” She nodded, sleepy but fighting it. He ran his fingers through the strands of her hair, calming both of them. “Tell me more.” 

They fell asleep dreaming about horses. 

  
  



End file.
